


The Final Girl and the Thaw

by thepointoftheneedle



Series: The Final Girl and the Thaw [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Action, Detective Betty Cooper, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Stabbing, Therapy, Violence, janitor jughead, mentioned sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointoftheneedle/pseuds/thepointoftheneedle
Summary: "Detective Betty Cooper was finally lead detective on a high profile murder enquiry and was heading up a team of five detectives.  No-one in the department could recall a detective leading on a major case at twenty seven  years of age and, apparently, to achieve that while in possession of a uterus made her even more remarkable. It had definitely all been worth it.  She was happy.  Why wouldn’t she be?  This is what happiness felt like, she supposed.  Having changed out of her waterproof boots and hung up her parka so it could dry a little after the altercation with the snow bank she felt like a high-powered professional woman as she strode confidently down the corridor."But the case is a little trickier than she expected and she is being distracted from her work by the dark haired janitor who seems to be fascinated by her murder board.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: The Final Girl and the Thaw [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655908
Comments: 183
Kudos: 123
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. One Long Season of Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter headings come from The Mountain Goats song Absolute Lithops Effect. Check it out, it's great! This story is about someone recovering from a trauma. Think of it like when you come in from being cold outdoors and, as your blood flows back into your fingers and toes, they sting like crazy, but that's how you stay alive.

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)  


February in New York is often snowy. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the snow will fall overnight. That way when you wake up the city seems to lie under a cosy white blanket like a baby, safe and warm, sleeping under a coverlet that a loving mother has tucked in to keep out the drafts. Even the sounds of the city are muffled, the honking and screeching softer than normal. Safe and quiet and soft and white. What could be better? But then, as the day begins, the traffic melts the snow on the streets and turns it grey. As you walk to work icy, filthy slush sprays at you and chills you so that you can’t get warm for the rest of the day and you shiver like a wet dog at your desk. The snow that’s been ploughed piles up along the edge of the sidewalk; you have to scale a slippery mountain just to cross the street to get where you need to be and there’s always the chance you’ll slide right back down and fall on your butt in the street and everyone will know you just aren’t up to the job of being alive. So the snow might make you feel safe and cosy for a while but, taken all in all, it’s a royal pain in the ass.

——————————

She’d made it. The glass ceiling lay in shards around her and crunched under the two inch heels of her stylish yet comfortable pumps. Yes, she’d made sacrifices to get here, of course she had. But now it was obvious that it was all worth it. She wouldn’t exchange today for any number of unsatisfactory fumbles with entitled college boys or late nights passing a bong back and forth only to wake up with a headache and low self esteem. There had been no dating or drinking in college because her eyes were on the prize of a 4.0 grade average. When her virginity began to seem like an affectation she had found a willing partner via an app and completed the assignment without fuss, or indeed, pleasure. She had repeated the experiment a few times but never with satisfactory results so she had deleted the app. She’d hit the books hard in freshman year and had barely looked up until she received her masters degree in forensic psychology. From the police academy in Queens to two years as a uniformed officer, she had maintained her focus. There was never time for parties but if her life had taught her anything it was that the world is a twisted and frightening place and most people dance and drink because they are too weak to admit that simple bleak fact. Betty Cooper stared the world down. She was the final girl and the darkness didn’t scare her anymore. 

She was permitted to fast track to detective because of her outstanding academic and service record. She was not embarrassed that in her career she had never discharged her weapon. She had never needed to; she could de-escalate conflict without it. She’d never gone for drinks with the watch after work either because she had to rush home to feed her imaginary cat or, if the requests grew too insistent, care for her sick and fictional grandmother. When she became a detective she invented a two year old son who did double duty for her. She simply couldn’t go out for a beer when the shift ended because she had to get home to pay the sitter. She also found that being a single mom to a young child magically repelled the male colleagues who had begun to circle her like she was a wounded gazelle being stalked down by the hyenas of the patriarchy. He really was a great kid. If he’d existed she’d have bought him ice cream for all the annoying shit he got her out of.

Now she was finally lead detective on a high profile murder enquiry and was heading up a team of five detectives. No-one in the department could recall a detective leading on a major case at twenty seven years of age and, apparently, to achieve that while in possession of a uterus made her even more remarkable. It had definitely all been worth it. She was happy. Why wouldn’t she be? This is what happiness felt like, she supposed. Having changed out of her waterproof boots and hung up her parka so it could dry a little after the altercation with the snow bank she felt like a high-powered professional woman as she strode confidently down the corridor. Her case was sensitive and so, instead of the melee of the squad room, she had been allocated a conference space to serve as a base of operations. 

The case was certainly intriguing. Thomas Rowbotham had been subjected to what seemed like a professional hit in the board room of his Fortune 500 company. He had suffered three shots at close range and was pronounced dead at the scene. A double tap to the chest and a shot to the skull will do the job every single time. The suspect list was an embarrassment of riches, heirs galore, ex-employees with grievances over intellectual property disputes, two ex-wives who thought they’d been swindled in their settlements. There was also a young woman who had accused him of sexual harassment and sexual assault. The case had been hushed up amid NDAs and a whole lot of money. It turned out that the girl had taken her own life six months before Rowbotham met his end, but she had four brothers, two of whom were ex special forces. Betty marshalled her team of five, assigned tasks and cautioned them that they were dealing with the one percenters. Their customary Noo Yoik bravado would not be appreciated in the rarified air of the penthouses and parlours of their interviewees. They needed to shine their shoes and leave the attitude at home.

Having dispatched her four colleagues to interview, pull files and consult with financial experts Betty was at last able to look closely at her murder board. A rustle behind her alerted her to the fact that she was not alone. She spun around alarmed but then relaxed when she saw that it was only a janitor, emptying waste paper baskets and collecting empty take-out coffee cups. She found herself observing him for a moment as he went about his work. He was much younger than the other cleaners. He was tall and slender and moved with quiet grace. He must have felt her eyes on him because he looked up and met her gaze. Arresting blue eyes guarded by long dark lashes stared at her through black curls. He pushed his hair back impatiently under a grey beanie so that he could see her properly when he spoke. “Sorry ma’am. I’ll be out of your way in just minute.”

“It's fine. You aren’t disturbing me. Carry on,” she reassured him.

“Thanks. These rooms can get so busy that it’s hard to get in and keep them decent. With the heat in the building turned up so high they’ll start to smell pretty bad, pretty damn quick.” Betty made a non committal sound and turned back to her board.

“So, lead detective eh? Wow.” Betty turned back to look at him in confusion. Why was he talking to her? He shuffled under her steady gaze. “I heard some of the guys saying this was your first case as lead. Congratulations.” He seemed nervous now, perhaps feeling that he had veered out of his lane, professionally speaking.

She smiled politely. “Thanks. It’s good to have the opportunity at last. I hope I can get Mr Rowbotham the justice he deserves.” She picked up a file to indicate that the conversation, such as it was, had ended.

He mumbled something as he pushed the janitor’s cart out through the doors which she wasn’t certain that she had caught but it sounded like “He already got that.”

Two days later, when the report came in of another murder Betty was already beginning to feel anxious about the lack of progress they were making. Now Eleanor St Clair had been murdered, or rather executed, in her own home gym. Her trainer had been delayed by an accident caused by ice on the Queensboro Bridge and so Ms St Clair had decided to begin her workout alone. She had been in amazing condition for a woman of sixty two but the three bullets had put a significant damper on her cardiac fitness. The case came to Betty’s team because the vic was a one percenter who had been killed by two shots to the torso and one to the head just like Rowbotham. The walls of the fitness studio were spattered with her blood and it smelled like a slaughterhouse, which Betty supposed it was. As she assigned the day’s tasks back at the precinct Betty began to fear for the first time that maybe she wasn’t up to the job, that the lack of progress was due to poor leadership. Would the great and the good of Manhattan all have to die before she realised that her confidence was hubris and stood down?

Late that night, when she had told the last of her team to go home she sat alone in the centre of operations, staring at the board and trying, ineffectively, to massage the tension knots from her own shoulders. Abruptly she became aware of the squeak of rubber on linoleum and then the doors were pushed open by the janitor’s cart. It was blue eyes again and, without thinking, she found herself greeting him with a smile.

“You’re working late,” she said.  
“The city that never sleeps demands janitors who can keep up,” he replied with a grin, as he began to move from desk to desk, collecting candy wrappers and coffee cups. “Feeling the pressure?” he asked sympathetically, gesturing towards her attempt at self massage with a nod. 

“I guess so. Usually you struggle for one suspect but we have hundreds and none of them in common between the two cases. I suppose I begin to worry that Detective Jacobs made a mistake giving the case to me.”

She had no idea why she was sharing her insecurities with the janitor of all people. She never voiced her nerves. Perhaps it was because he had kind eyes and there really wasn't anyone else that she could communicate her worries to, not even an imaginary cat.

“Yeah, it’s like when my supervisor told me to clean the pigeon guano from off of the window ledges up on the sixth floor.” Betty raised an eyebrow, failing to see the similarity, and he continued, “Well it's a tricky job. Could be dangerous. It hadn't been done properly for a long time. If I made a mess of it, or even got hurt, my supervisor could say he told the new guy to do it but he messed it up, so it wouldn't be on him. Like I say I'm the new guy so they don't know me, don't care about me, so no loss to them if I get fired or something. If I get it right though… If I get it right I win some respect right there. If you are ever up there, on the sixth, you should take a look at those ledges. They are a thing of beauty.” 

He chuckled and slowly wheeled his cart out and down the corridor. Betty stared after him. All she could think was “Cool story bro.”

She didn't put it together until she was getting into bed that night. This was an important case and she'd been a little surprised when the supervising detective, Jacobs, had assigned it to her, but now she saw what was going on. It was pigeon guano. Either she cleared it up, in which case props to Jacobs for promoting a new star, or she didn’t, and that would be it for her career. The whispers would be that it was no job for a woman, that the girls could support an investigation but not lead one, and the status quo would be intact. Whatever happened, Jacobs was politically bombproof. Pigeon guano. And another thing, what kind of janitor said “guano” not shit?

She found herself looking for him. Which was ridiculous. She thought about those cobalt eyes when she put on her make up in the ladies’ bathroom at the start of the day, trying to hide how red her cheeks had become as she moved from the freezing streets to the overheated building. She was actually trying to work out his musculature by remembering the outline of the NYPD overalls he wore. “Inappropriate, Betty" she reproached herself feeling foolish. She could almost hear her mother’s voice reprimanding her “You didn't study hard, get two excellent degrees and rise through the ranks of the NYPD in order to moon about over the janitor Betty.” She realised how entitled and snobbish that sort of attitude was and felt bad about that too. Then she realised she was objectifying a coworker, thinking about his body for God’s sake, in a way that she would have angrily condemned if it was being done to her. And she felt sordid and guilty. Then she realised that she obviously held all the power in their interactions since she was a lead detective and he, a lowly janitor, and she felt terrible. And she had thought that he was lowly… entitled and privileged and judgemental and shallow and bad, bad, bad. The spiralling was becoming a whirlpool of self-reproach so she splashed water on her face, destroying the freshly applied make up and began again. She really had to close these feelings down before they scuppered her leadership skills. She wasn’t sure what was happening to her. She never let her feelings get the better of her like this.

Feeling much more in command of herself, she decided to do some actual investigation rather than simply coordinating the team. She was a good detective and she needed to get back in touch with that to recover her equilibrium. She decided to spend some time with the families, both in order to reassure these influential people that the NYPD was doing all in its power to protect and serve them and also to see if she could pick up those subtle clues as to relationships that one could only gain face-to-face. She spent a revealing hour with the latest Mrs Rowbotham, a beautiful and ethereal creature called Samira who had run her own horoscope and crystal healing centre on the west coast until “darling Tom" had taken her away from that drudgery to a life of New York high society and Soho shopping. She had already contacted real estate agents to sell the Manhattan apartment with a view to relocating to LA or San Fran. “This climate is just unreal isn’t it? I need to feel the sun on my skin again.” As Samira sipped her herbal tea, offered to align Betty’s chakras and remarked on her aura (ice-blue and spiky apparently) she decided that it was unlikely that this flower child had executed her husband in broad daylight and then calmly left the building.

Next she met with Eleanor St Clair's son and heir, Nicholas. He was slouching in a leather armchair as she entered what the butler described as the "morning room". She wondered if they would have to leave at noon and relocate to the midday salon or the après midi drawing room. The room was expensively furnished. She was amongst high society now. The room contained a piano but no television. Framed family photographs adorned the top of the instrument. Here was Nicholas with his mother and presumably his late father, a blonde boy standing just to one side of the group. Nick again with the blonde boy, snowboards over their shoulders, squinting into the lens. St Clair didn't stand to greet her and while she wouldn't normally expect that level of politesse it still felt like a studied slight from him. "Mr St Clair, I'm the lead detective in your mother’s case. I wanted to come and offer my condolences personally. My name is Elizabeth Cooper." She stood over him and held out her hand. It was a power move, taking the higher position and yet she was still being scrupulously polite. 

"Good morning Miss Cooper. You seem so young to have been promoted so high. Still, affirmative action eh?" He smiled conspiratorially. Did he expect her not to be insulted by the implication that she had been promoted because of her gender not in spite of it? As he smiled she realised that he was trying to provoke her. He wanted her to snap at him which would then give him something to forgive her for. He'd be the gracious, bereaved scion and she'd be the touchy, irrational young woman. No deal, dick. 

"Well I certainly hope that you let my work speak for itself Mr St Clair. I'm going to do my very best to find out who did this despicable thing." She placed her hand over his on the arm of the chair and looked down at him sympathetically. "I'm sure this is an awful time for you but don't worry. I completely understand.” Touché asshat. She had shown him that she noticed the insult but graciously forgave him. He was flustered now "May I sit?" she asked with the good manners that her mother had instilled in her to counteract Alice’s own feelings of social inadequacy.

"Of course Miss Cooper. Now what do you need to ask me? I have rather a lot to do as you can imagine." Betty took a moment to observe him. He didn’t look busy. He wore expensive looking loafers, dark slacks, a polo shirt. So far so identikit rich, entitled, white boy with an inflated sense of self importance and no self awareness. The only anomaly was his wrist watch. Normally she would've expected a slim gold dress watch, a Patek Philippe or something. He wore, instead, a chunky inelegant steel chronograph with a scratched face. It jarred.

"I suppose you’ll be taking over the business. There must be a lot to learn," she suggested sympathetically. 

"No, the company is being sold. It was my mother’s passion. She had me educated for it, even sent me to Harvard to make the right contacts. I know she expected me to join the firm when I graduated but once I’d collected my degree I set off to travel and find myself. I took a cargo ship out of Boston and spent three years travelling in Africa. It was the most important experience of my life." He couldn’t resist the chance to impress a young woman with his worldliness. Betty noted that she would get more from him by appealing to his vanity.

"But you came home?" she prompted.

"Well nothing lasts forever. Mother wanted me back so I came to do my duty. But now she's gone there’s nothing for me here. I’ll sell up and make a life somewhere else." He was an enigma, a WASP who longed for Africa, an entitled member of a cultured elite who gave up luxury to find himself by backpacking in the developing world, an Armani suit with a cheap watch.

Two days later there was a third murder. Things were going from bad to worse. Her investigation kept throwing up new leads to follow and yet never closing down even one. Alexander Kulyov was killed, execution style in the bathroom of his exclusive Upper West Side members club. No one heard anything. Betty was at the scene less than twenty minutes after the body was found but, despite her fervent hopes, there was no signed confession scrawled on the wall in the victim’s blood. She couldn't stop herself from wondering if it was her fault that this man was dead. If she done her job better would he be finishing his fillet mignon now and heading home to his wife and children?

She sat in the incident room most of the night after her team had gone home. She stared at the murder board from every angle but she just couldn't see the connection. Yes they were rich, yes they enjoyed lives of privilege and ease but none of those lives intersected. Could it be a political thing? Was it terrorism? She went home for a couple of hours to change and shower and was heading back just before the shift officially started with a redeye and a muffin in the hope that caffeine and refined sugar would jumpstart her cognitive function. When she returned she found the janitor’s cart inside the door of her incident room and the driver of said cart standing in front of her board. He spun round as she entered the room and looked guilty "I was just… um… Sorry. I'll be on my way. Trash to collect. The mountains of things we throw away and all that….” He smiled as he collected the cart and disappeared through the door. 

Betty looked up the corridor after him. If these were crimes of hate against the rich it might be terror related or it could be a serial killer with an obsession. Serial killers sometimes inserted themselves into investigations. They volunteered to search for victims, they would bring coffee and donuts to the police at the crime scene. A creeping feeling ran up her spine. Why was an attractive and intelligent young man who could casually use the correct term for pigeon excrement working as a janitor? Why was he, apparently, working day and night? Why was he staring at her murder board?


	2. I Am Taking Tiny Steps Forward

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)  


New York City has a traffic problem. The average speed of an automobile journey is 4.7 miles per hour. That’s a really slow jogging pace. But the roads still have to be kept clear for all those vehicles. The buses and trucks that bring the goods and the workers to the great city need to crawl along them. So when it’s icy the city lays down tonnes upon tonnes of road salt. It lowers the freezing point of water and it provides traction for tyres but it’s not good for the road surfaces or the cars. It eats away at both, corroding metal and softening concrete and tarmac. You can’t salt forever without destroying the very things you are trying to improve. You need the Spring and the warmer days so that the roads can be patched and the vehicles washed clean. All that salt is just a short term fix to keep going when everything just wants to shut down, frozen solid.

_________________________

The day began and her team drifted in, nursing coffee cups in cold fingers, to report back and be allocated tasks but Betty was preoccupied throughout the briefing. She’d thought what he’d said about the “mountains of things we throw away” sounded like a quote. She googled it; it was Steinbeck. She was unaccustomed to needing to google the maintenance staff to follow their literary references. Was her janitor a suspect who had taken a job for which he was patently overqualified in order to monitor or even sabotage her investigation? As her team began their tasks she headed off to the personnel department. She asked to see the employee files for the janitorial staff and was told that, even though this was the police department, she couldn't ride roughshod over the legal protection to which the workers were entitled. If she had just cause then she should see a judge and get a warrant. Otherwise no dice. Since she didn't even have a name to work with she didn't push the matter. 

Betty proceeded to have a very clumsy day. First she spilt a venti latte all over the floor and her desk. No use crying over it; she had a detective call through to the janitors and a sweet man called Bernard came and cleaned up her mess. Next she slammed the storeroom door so hard that the glass transom shattered. This time a woman called Charisse came to sweep up the mess and then an Andrew appeared shortly afterwards with a new sheet of glass. None of these people had blue eyes behind recalcitrant hanks of dark hair. Then, like a klutz, she dropped an earring into the sink drain in the ladies bathroom. She waited there for the janitor to come because the earring had been a present from her imaginary grandmother and consequently it was of great fictional sentimental value. Eventually ol’ blue eyes himself appeared, live and in person. She couldn't help a sigh of relief escaping as he rounded the corner of the corridor but she covered it up by gushing “Oh, I'm so sorry to take up your time. It's just that Grandma Cooper’s earrings are so precious to me and I couldn't bear to lose one of them. Do you think you might be able to get it back?" He looked at her oddly but lay on the floor under the sink and proceeded to unscrew the pipes, shaking each section to see if the heirloom was inside. As he worked she tried to make friendly conversation. "I'm having such a bad day. I've been keeping your colleagues so busy." He grunted and shook another section of pipe. "I'm Betty by the way." 

He looked up at her for a moment, like he knew it was making her shiver, before saying "Jughead" and diving back under the sink. 

"Oh that's unusual. Is it a family name? My grandmother was Elizabeth too. Do you come from a long line of Jugheads?” She was no longer sure if she was interrogating or flirting. It was a bad interrogation but as flirting it was a disaster of epic proportions.

"No, just me" he replied. 

"Are you a native New Yorker? You don't have the accent do you?”

”No, not a local,” he replied. It was like getting blood from a stone. 

“Have you always been in janitorial work?" She was getting desperate. In what world did this sound like a normal conversation? It was so awkward it was almost an out of body experience. 

"No I've done other things, here and there...And here it is!" He pulled the gold stud out of a pipe, trailing long hair and soap scum. He rinsed it under the tap in another sink and handed it back. "I can see why you were concerned. It’s so unique." Betty looked at the plain gold stud in her hand and then at his blank expression. Was he making fun of her? 

“Jughead, would you like to go for a drink… with me? Or get coffee?" she asked in a rush. It simply wasn't practical to keep having these emergencies to contact him and maybe if he was in a relaxed situation he'd reveal more. He’d certainly been like a clam so far. 

"Well thanks, but I don't know if that would be exactly appropriate, would it? But thanks for the offer." He grinned at her, smug and infuriating, and she was aware that she was blushing like a high schooler. He finished replacing the pipework. 

"Oh I didn't mean… inappropriate drinks. I meant, just to say thank you.” She was flustered and gabbling and she seemed to be sweating. There was definitely sweat on her upper lip. Sexy. Would he complain to his manager that the perspiring female detective was sexually harassing him? 

"No thanks necessary. I'm glad to be of service." He removed the plastic gloves he'd been wearing to investigate the pipes and held out his hand to shake. She took it. It was so hot, his fingers were long and his knuckles prominent. They were the hands of a pianist or a painter not a janitor. The handshake had finished but she realised to her horror that she hadn't let go. She dropped his hand like it was alight and jumped back. 

"Well thank you anyway." she gasped and fled from the bathroom. She’d achieved nothing in her attempt to investigate Jughead. His behaviour still seemed suspicious but apparently so was hers. She’d reached a dead end so she returned to the incident room, embarrassed and a little disappointed, as he departed in the opposite direction whistling.

Late that night, as she tried to relax under a hot shower, the tune that he’d whistled was still, irritatingly, in her head. What was the German phrase for that? Ohrwurm. He'd infected her with an earworm.

The next morning as she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for her alarm to tell her it was time to get dressed, she worried. She felt that she was getting nowhere with the investigation and feared that the lack of results would mean that she would lose her command. She didn't really understand the people who had been murdered or their lives. Like a rainbow in a deluge, the idea came to her. Cheryl. Her cousin Cheryl was the poster girl for the East Coast elite. Her family owned a million dollar company selling maple syrup to a nation whose appetite for sugar knew no moderation. She attended balls and charity dinners, met with governors and senators and always flew private. She would be able to tell her about her victims. She answered Betty's call on the second ring. "Betty darling. It's just delightful to hear from you. Tell me you've dropped that silly cops and robbers game and you're coming to work for me in syrup." 

"Sorry Cheryl, no. But I wondered if, when you're in the city, you'd like to get dinner?”

"Oh ma cherie, of course, I'd love to. I'll fly in just for the joy of it. I have some little errands in the city anyway. Let's go somewhere exorbitant, my treat of course. Tomorrow?" Betty felt overwhelmed as she always did in the presence of the force of nature that was Cheryl Blossom. She gritted her teeth, agreed, and prepared for the tsunami. As soon as she ended the call, she began to worry about what she would wear for dinner “somewhere exorbitant.”

The following evening Cheryl’s driver buzzed the apartment at eight pm. Betty wistfully thought that she'd rather be in pyjamas, under a blanket, scrolling Netflix, than in an uncomfortable dress and high heels preparing for a dinner that she would be unable to eat because of the complicated etiquette involved in every course but she straightened her spine and pushed the button on the speaker, calling "Be right down." Cheryl wore a scarlet pantsuit that matched her nails and lips. Her shoes were impractically high, the soles as red as the uppers. She kissed Betty on either cheek as she got into the town car. “Oh Betty, it’s thrilling. Who knew there were streets above 100th? I feel like an explorer. Now, to what do I owe the sudden urge for a family reunion darling?" 

"I have a case Cheryl, a homicide case." Cheryl’s mouth formed a moue. She clearly hoped Betty wasn't going to ruin the evening by talking about anything as déclassé as murder. "Thomas Rowbotham, Eleanor St Clair, Alexander Yulyov, all dead within ten days, same M.O. I wondered if you could see the connection or knew anything scandalous about them." 

“Oh well, it does sound intriguing in a Netflix documentary sort of way. Oh, I’m sorry Betty.” Cheryl looked a little embarrassed at her slip. “ I shall give it some thought over dinner.” Cheryl turned the conversation to mutual acquaintances and the health of their respective mothers until the car glided to a halt. “Ah, here we are.”

They were outside an anonymous doorway in Midtown. There was no awning, no valet, no sign of any kind that this was a restaurant. Cheryl pressed the buzzer beside the door with a long red talon and it opened with a sigh. Inside a young woman took their coats and then led them to an elevator. After a few moments they stepped out into a spacious dining area where a low ripple of conversation and the sounds of silverware on fine china was underlaid by quiet jazz from concealed speakers. They were shown to a table next to an expansive window from which they could see the whole city spread out like a glittering map. 

Betty felt nervous about the menu and the silverware so she copied Cheryl’s order so that she could piggy back her cousin's savoir-faire. She tried to contain her desire to talk about the case, attempting to make entertaining conversation to repay Cheryl for her generosity and her possible insights. Then, she stopped abruptly, fork halfway to her lips and took a sharp, startled breath. "Whatever ails you cousin?" Cheryl asked, concerned. 

Betty hardly knew how to reply. "I'm just surprised. I see someone I know over there at the bar. It's just out of context." 

"Who?" Cheryl began to crane her elegant neck to see who had perturbed Betty so much. 

"Don't stare Cheryl. The man in the red shirt. With the young girl." 

"Oh, tousled and stormy there? Well not my flavour of course, but I can see how he might fit the bill for you. Not too obvious, a little dangerous. But darling, she is much too young for him. It's a little sordid, isn't it? Still, shall I invite them to join us?”

"No Cheryl, please. It's not at all like that. Frankly I'm shocked he can afford this place. I assume it's wildly expensive." 

"God it's obscene Betty. Honestly. Oh look he's seen you. Haha, now he's doing just what you did. Oh how funny! Très amusant!”

Betty couldn't understand how Jughead could possibly pay to eat at this exclusive venue on a janitor’s salary. And she wondered why he would want to. He didn't seem the type for fancy dinners with girls that could barely be of age. But then he was coming over, visibly swallowing hard as he did so. She had time to take him in as he glided between the tables, stepping aside as a sommelier carried a wine cooler to another diner. He wore dark slacks over Chelsea boots. His hair was characteristically untidy but glossy and clearly expensively cut now it was free of the old grey beanie he always wore at the precinct. He seemed even taller here. His shirt was scandalous, short sleeves revealing strong, tanned forearms, unbuttoned simply too far to be decent. She couldn't tell if he was trying to show off the lean, toned planes of his chest or if he was simply hot. Well, God, he was certainly hot. So hot. And here he was. "Hi there Detective Betty," he smiled nervously. "What a coincidence." 

"Hello Jughead. How nice to see you. This is my cousin Cheryl." Cheryl greeted Jughead with almost regal condescension but turned back to Betty and mouthed the word “hot" at her. Thanks Cheryl, Betty thought, I hadn’t noticed.

“I expect you're wondering why I’m here." said Jughead, looking slightly ashamed. 

"Well I'm a detective. Wondering is kinda my thing," she replied pertly. 

"What if I said I won a competition?" he offered. He looked so hopeful that she felt almost sorry for him. 

"Well then I'd be sure that you had a good reason for telling me such an outrageous lie. But I’d keep right on wondering." 

"As enthralling as this banter is, perhaps I can persuade you to to put it on hold for the evening." Cheryl was in no mood to have her dinner ruined by police business. "Would you and your… um… friend care to join us?”

"My sister," Jughead corrected, to Betty’s secret joy. He wasn't a creep. Just a liar. And possibly a serial killer. "No, we couldn't possibly impose. And she’s visiting as a kind of celebration. She's just got her acceptance letter from Columbia. We’re pretty happy that she can join me in New York. Anyway I'll leave you to your evening. See you at work… ma’am." 

"Will you stop? Betty, you know it's Betty," 

"Well have a good evening Betty, Cheryl." And he strode back to his sister who was raising a curious eyebrow at him 

"He’s very tall, dark and mysterious. Is he one of your sleuthing underlings?" Cheryl demanded once he was out of earshot 

"He’s the janitor,” Betty replied, with an expression that indicated that she knew how incongruous that remark was. Eventually she was able to turn the conversation back to what Cheryl knew of the victims in her case. She didn’t know Yulyov at all. “Oligarchs darling. Just not our circle at all.” As to Rowbotham she simply confirmed what Betty suspected. He was a predator, a shark. "Cash but no class" was Cheryl’s verdict. She also offered the opinion that she would shake the hand of the person who had “taken out the trash” as she put it. That made Betty glance over at Jughead’s table where he was looking pained as a waiter set a plate containing two scallops and some sort of alarmingly green puree in front of him. When it came to Eleanor St Clair, however, Cheryl had more to say. There were rumours, apparently, that the St Clairs’ company had been connected to organised crime in the past but that Eleanor had cleaned house when her husband had died and gone legit. She had been, apparently, a feisty and determined woman who ran the company like a military dictator. Cheryl had also heard whispers about the son and heir. It seemed likely that he was a sexual deviant who liked to hurt young girls. There had been some trouble when he was at college and it seemed probable that his departure for overseas adventures had been arranged to avoid an arrest. While he was away, it seemed, mommy had been able to make the trouble go away but the rumours remained. Cheryl said she thought he was a sexual sadist with only the flimsiest grasp of consent. She also thought it was most unlikely that he spent his travelling years digging wells or saving elephants. Betty would have to investigate that.

By the end of the evening Betty had two suspects in her sights. The apparently wealthy, enigmatic janitor with an interest in keeping tabs on an open investigation and the sadistic and possibly matricidal Nicolas St Clair. She was determined not to let the fact that she was experiencing an entirely uncharacteristic sexual attraction to one of them stop her from doing her job to the best of her ability but the thought crossed her mind that it would be a great waste if she had to send all of that hotness to jail.

The next day she managed to track Jughead down at the precinct. Knowing his name helped, especially since the name was Jughead of all things. The janitor that she asked looked at her like she was a besotted schoolgirl but he did at least tell her that Jones had been sent to sweep up cigarette butts from the designated smoking zone in a tiny courtyard behind the precinct. She found him in the snow with his overalls rolled to his waist wearing a white tank top, with a cigarette of his own hanging loosely from his lips. Stanley Kowalski meets Albert Camus. He leaned on his broom as she approached. "I was expecting the Spanish Inquisition." He smiled as she approached. 

"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition," she replied without missing a beat. He grinned at her, delighted by the reference. ”Aren’t you freezing? How can you be out here undressed?” Betty felt freezing just looking at him and pulled her parka around herself more tightly.

“I run hot. Fast metabolism. And the sweeping keeps me warm. I can cover up if it bothers you?” He looked at her slyly through that stray curl that fell across his forehead. 

“Doesn’t bother me one bit,” she lied. “Okay, now spill,” she demanded, but he simply looked at her blankly. "How can you afford to go to a place like that on janitors’ pay? And why were you looking at the murder board? Why do you work here at all?" 

"Well Detective, it seems to me that you don't have any cause to ask me questions. If you think I did something you'll have to arrest me. But good luck getting a warrant based on the fact that I took my sister out for dinner and that I was doing my job in a room that I was rostered to clean up." 

“You're infuriating," she hissed. 

"So I've been told. Anyhoo if you'll excuse me, I have duties to which I must attend." He stood upright, threw his cigarette butt onto the ground and crushed it into the snow under a heavy black boot to resume his sweeping. Who spoke in complete, grammatically correct sentences like that while sweeping up cigarette butts? When she looked back at him he was whistling that damn tune and watching her. 

As she queued in the grocery store, late that evening, she finally placed the tune. "One of these things is not like the others. One of these things is not the same." Sesame Street. She found herself humming it as she packed her supplies, as she walked to her car, as she drove home. Damn earworm. She was still humming it as the microwave prepared a delicious repast. The ping sounded as the inspiration struck. She had been looking for similarities, she needed to look for differences. 

Early next morning she threw herself into a chair opposite the scene of crime officer assigned to her case. "How are these three scenes different? What do you see?" "Well one’s a gym, one’s a boardroom and one’s a bathroom at a private club,” explained the officer with more than an edge of sarcasm. 

"Yeah yeah. So I see three identical, professional hits. What do you see?" 

"Same. Well…" He paused "pretty professional." 

"Explain" she demanded. 

"Okay so this kind of hit is pretty standard for military personnel or assassins if they want to be sure of the hit. Double tap torso and one to the head. You shoot at the torso first because it incapacitates and it's the largest target. You shoot twice without re-sighting so you usually get two slugs off before the target falls. We see the two shots closely grouped, usually one higher than the other as the mark falls or to one side as they’re spun round by the impact. And that's just what we see in vic one and vic three. Closely grouped. Spatter to indicate the double tap. Bang bang." He made a finger gun and fired twice. "But the female vic is different. We had one shot to the torso, then spatter shows that the second shot was fired from above when the victim was already on the ground. Finished with a 3rd to the head but not cleanly. He almost missed the headshot." 

"So? What does it mean?" 

"Search me. It's like a cold-blooded assassin made a hit, suddenly got less professional and then brought it back again for number three." 

“Or a cold blooded assassin had a personal connection to the second victim but not the other two.” Betty thought but did not say out loud. Could St Clair really be ruthless enough to kill two complete strangers to divert suspicion from himself in the killing of his mother? Betty knew better than most that the filial bond was not unbreakable but if her theory were true St Clair must be a sociopath. That would have to leave a trace.

It was almost time for her to follow up on Nick St Clair’s hippy years of self discovery. Before she could do that, however, she needed to clear up some unfinished business. She called the janitorial supervisor and told him that she needed to question one of his staff informally with regard to some background information for her case. She assured him that she wouldn't keep him from his duties for too long and that he, obviously, could refuse if he wished. Twenty minutes later a clearly disgruntled Jughead reported to her desk. "Shall we take a walk?" she suggested. 

"Fine." he mumbled sulkily. 

"Okay" she began as they walked down the corridor towards the main entrance. "We both know you’re up to something. Either you’re a suspect or you have some other nefarious project. Either you’re the killer or you’re distracting me and hampering the investigation. Which is it?" 

"I'm distracting you," he repeated, pleased with himself. 

"Do I need to arrest you Jones?" She meant business. 

"No" he sulked. 

"Then tell me. Now" 

"I’d better show you. In the immortal words of Dan Brown “I have got to get to a library... fast.” Or a bookstore. Maybe a bookstore would be better. There’s a Barnes And Noble a couple of blocks over." 

"What are you talking about? I can’t go shopping, I’m running an investigation. Anyway, you’re a suspect. Just tell me." she remonstrated but he was insistent. 

“I’m not asking you to get in the back of a blacked out van. We’re taking a walk through one of the most populous cities on the planet. C’mon.” He grabbed her hand in his and she was shocked again at how warm his fingers felt. She fell into step with him as he began to stride off towards the bookstore but wrangled her fingers free, instantly missing the warmth. 

Once they arrived he scanned the shop quickly "Right, crime fiction. God, this is either going to be enormously validating or a real kick in the teeth." As they reached the section he scanned the shelves with an outstretched pointer finger. "Hah! Validating. Good," and dragged a volume from the shelf. The book was titled “Fall of the High School Running Back" and the author was FP Jones III. 

She took the volume from him and looked at him questioningly "A relative?" He turned the book over in her hand and his face looked out at her from the author profile photo.


	3. With a Little Water and a Little Bit of Sunlight

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)  


The Big Apple gets a lot of snow between January and March. It can be too deep to simply plough off the roads. The snow banks would be mountainous. Snowfall that’s deep like that interferes with the life of the city and everything stops, frozen right to the core. The sanitation department came up with a solution. When snow accumulates to a significant depth, the city sends out mobile snow melters. The snow is scooped up by diggers and placed into a huge mobile tank of lukewarm water, the snow melts and the resulting water is filtered into the sewers. It doesn’t even have to be hot water, just a little tepid water can get the ice to melt, no problemo. Who’d believe that all that snow could be overcome by the tiniest little bit of warmth? The life of the city can start again. There’s a lot of water to deal with though.

——————————

There was a coffee shop next door to the bookstore so they adjourned there after Betty had overridden his protests and bought the book. “Spill it F.P.” she demanded as they found somewhere to sit and he signed the book for her, presumptuously writing his number alongside his autograph.

"FP is my dad. I'm Jughead. The publisher just won't put it on the covers.”

"Covers? How many have you written?" 

"Three, two published, one coming out in October. Working on number four now." 

"So Mr Published Author why the heck are you working as a janitor?" 

“OK so I always write from life. I need to know the world. Not so much on the plot but I need to know how a room smells, what you can hear at a location. Can't do it any other way. That one’s set in my hometown, the others have a kind of gang setting which I know from experience. Long story,” he interrupted himself in response to her raised eyebrow. “This next one is a police procedural so I decided to get hired at a precinct, blend into the background, get my local colour." 

"Nice blending," Betty mocked. 

"What gave me away?" 

"You said guano instead of shit...and the murder board. Most people don't want to look." 

“Ah morbid sesquipedalianism.”

Betty almost spat out her coffee as she laughed at him. “You mean you’re a sick smartass.”

“You wound me deeply Detective Betty. It has been my fate to suffer for both my vocabulary and my intriguing darkness. Do you know the first time I was in a fist fight it was because a jock couldn't handle the fact that I knew the word necrophilia? Same shit different day." 

"Same guano" she quipped. 

They lingered over coffee and donuts and he asked about the case "Not for the book I promise. I have a perfectly serviceable murder for that." 

"I think I have a lead,” she said with an air of confidentiality. 

"Nick St Clair" he pronounced, confidently. 

"How the hell did you know that?" she was alarmed to think she had missed something since it was so obvious to him. 

"Well, I know he's a creep. A friend of mine was roofied by him once. Don't worry, she gave as good as she got. But also, think about the timing. Rowbotham and the Russian were both where they should be, where they'd be expected to be alone. But St Clair's mother was supposed to be with the trainer. How could anyone plan for that? You can't close down the Queensboro Bridge just to get her on her own. So it was a crime of opportunity. The others seemed more prepared. So it needed to be someone who was Johnny-on-the-spot for that one. Enter a sick bastard, Nick St Clair.” 

"So it’s like what my crime scene guy said, just from the placing of the slugs and the spatter, this one’s different... and that's why you were whistling tunes from Sesame Street. You should be a detective instead of a janitor." 

"Yeah, my record could be an issue." He chuckled but looked a little ashamed. "You're totally going to look me up now aren’t you?”

“Not unless there’s something I need to know. Is it anything that might put you back in the suspect pool?” 

“No, definitely not, and so I'm not hampering the investigation now by distracting you am I?" 

Betty took her bottom lip between her teeth and looked at him before lowering her voice "You're still… Oh fuck, I'm useless at this,” she cried as she put her hands over her face

"What? What's wrong" he laughed pulling her hands towards him. 

"I wanted to say you’re still distracting me. To flirt, sort of. But I don't know how to do it. I don't have the knack at all." Tears of embarrassment filled her eyes. She felt humiliated. 

"So I **am** distracting. Hey, hey there, if the aim of flirting is arousal then you’re an expert. I’m pretty excited right now.” Now she bent forward and put her head on the table and made a moaning sound. “What on earth is wrong now?” he laughed.

“You can’t say that. Don’t say arousal. I’ll do something inappropriate.” she mumbled.

“Well I’d like to accommodate you but shall we at least go on a date first?”

“I can’t, “ she whined. “You’re a coworker and it would look so bad. The power dynamic… there are protocols,” she blushed and looked at her fingernails in embarrassment.

“That's solved pretty easily. I'll quit. I've gathered most of the background colour I need anyway. I know how detectives curse at each other and how they take their coffee. I even know how most of them smell. I just need…" He leaned over and breathed in deeply just behind her ear. As he exhaled his warm breath caressed her neck and she shivered and closed her eyes in pleasure. "For research,” he murmured against her skin and when she opened them he was looking at her with soft enquiry "What is that? It's flowers but sort of spicy, like pepper." 

"My shampoo is geranium. Maybe it's that,” she suggested still trembling from the feeling of his closeness.

"Maybe it's just you." 

They walked back to the precinct together, separating outside the doors to avoid gossip and she returned to her base of operations. She found it impossible to begin work because her mind kept being drawn back as if magnetically to Jughead. She liked his body, his height, the long lean planes of muscle in his arms. His eyes were fascinating, changing mood from intense and passionate to humorous and wry in moments, like the ocean in colour and spirit. Most of all she couldn't forget how she'd felt as his warm breath stroked her neck and his voice rumbled through her body. He hadn't touched her and yet it was the most sensual experience of her life. She felt like a leading lady in one of those old Bollywood movies where the lovers’ intimacy is revealed through symbolic movements and heated glances. The hero takes a peach and kisses it reverently, passes it to his lady love and she places her lips to its warm, soft, receptive flesh. She was, to use his word, aroused. In the ladies room she splashed cold water on her face. It didn't help so she took off her blouse and splashed her neck and chest. She realised with a giggle that he had made her need to take a cold shower. She barely recognised herself. Giggling and excited by a man, contemplating a date, who was she?

Having dried off with paper towels, she returned to her work. She looked at the photograph of Nick St Clair that they had taken from the company website. Its effect was much more chastening than the cold water. There were a number of lines of enquiry that needed to be followed if they were to build a case. Did he have the expertise, training and temperament to carry out these professional hits? Did he have an alibi for any of the murders? Did he even have a motive to commit matricide? She realised that she was going to have to back her instinct and set the whole team to work on this so she summoned her troops.

Betty began the case meeting by asking the detectives whether they had any leads that they felt confident about. It made the normally boisterous officers look at their desks like nervous students, trying to avoid their teacher’s eye when they haven’t done the assigned reading. She cautioned them that, while she had a suspect in mind, she was, by no means ready to make an arrest and that the suspect had already proven himself to be a flight risk. “Last time a warrant was issued against him he shipped out to Africa and stayed away for three years,” she warned them. They must dig in silence, not letting him know his guilt was being uncovered.

She asked two of the detectives to establish and then interrogate St Clair’s alibis for all three crimes. It was vital that he didn't feel that he was being singled out so they were also to ensure that the other relatives were asked the same questions in case they were in contact with each other. She then tasked another two members of the team to look at the business that Eleanor had left in Nick’s care. They were to establish what was to be gained by liquidating the CEO. She suggested financial experts that they might call as consultants as long as they were discreet. She would look into Nick’s history in Africa to see if it told her anything revealing with regard to skills and character. Since, as she told the team, the work would be mainly research-based she would take it on alone. She preferred it that way. 

Nick had said that he shipped out from Boston after graduation. She knew that he was dodging an arrest warrant so she called the DA's office in Massachusetts and established day and date for the warrant and the date and reason for its vacation. Eventually a friendly sounding junior DA was able to give her the information she needed. A warrant was issued against Nicholas Danvers St Clair on June 16, five years earlier, for the offence of the statutory rape and assault of a minor child. The DA told her the child in question was fourteen years old. Betty felt a little sick at that. The warrant could not be served because the suspect had left the country and no location could be established for extradition. It was vacated almost three years later at the petition of the suspect’s lawyer when the child withdrew the complaint. She claimed she'd been trying to extort the young man in question but, as she had been a minor, no charges were brought against her. Next, Betty called the port authority in Boston. She needed to know the names and destinations of cargo vessels leaving for Africa that June, five years ago. There were only three vessels that fitted the bill so she noted the names of the ships and and the shipping lines. 

It was frustratingly complex to track down the headquarters of shipping companies. To find someone who spoke English at those companies was even more difficult. Once she’d cleared those hurdles though she quickly found that people were delighted to help an NYPD detective. The reach of American cop shows played to their advantage sometimes. While the request for passenger manifests for five-year-old voyages was clearly a troublesome one her persistence paid off. It always did. Finally she received an email with the attachment she had hoped for. The passenger manifest for the Star of Panama from Boston to Mombasa that sailed on June 18th listed Nicholas St Clair along with another passenger, Charles Smith. “Gotcha!" thought Betty. 

By the time her calls were made it was ten at night. Her shoulders felt like they were made of knotted iron chains and she had a headache that throbbed in time with her pulse. She rested her cheek on the desk and closed her eyes, just for a moment. When she opened them again it was to the sight of Jughead’s soft grey T-shirt. He was standing by her desk with a rather sentimental smile on his lips. "You were snuffling." 

"I was not. I’m a senior investigator. We don't snuffle." she retorted sleepily.  
"Have you eaten anything?” he enquired. 

"Not since donuts.” she replied, still trying to rub the creases from the side of her face where it had been resting on her notepad.

“Well you are far too cute to go to bed hungry. Let’s go.” He was almost at the door before she could protest.

“Jughead, I told you I can’t. Protocols.”

“No problem Snuffler. I’m no longer an employee of the city. I pulled a double shift and I’ve got a few days holiday due so I am a free man as of midnight. Come on.” He took her hand as he had done earlier in the day, yesterday actually, she corrected herself and grabbed her coat as he hurried her out.

She ended her day with breakfast food at one in the morning. She was of the view that it was always the right time for eggs. He ate two burgers, onion rings and fries and was still finished long before her. She was in awe of his metabolism. He claimed that he had a furnace inside that ensured that he was always warm but required constant fuel. When he took her hands to show how warm they were compared to hers her heart raced and she felt butterflies in her stomach. No man had ever had an effect on her like this. She had no idea what to do. She didn’t know whether it would be crazy to kiss him. Might he think she was too pushy or was he wondering why she hadn’t? As her mind began to spin dizzyingly she decided that the best thing she could do was simply ask for help. “Can I talk to you Jug?” she began.

“I certainly hope so,” he smiled at her and her tummy flipped over.

“I really…like you.” she began.

“I really like you back. I keep finding myself not concentrating on what I’m doing because I’m liking you. Not to freak you out but I woke up this morning after dreaming about really, really liking you.”

Betty went red but she smiled too. It was good to know that she affected him like he did her. “I’m glad about that but I’m so scared.”

“What of?” Now he looked serious. She could tell that he was anxious but he was really listening too.

“I just don’t know what I’m doing. I haven’t really dated or anything. I just don’t want to do this wrong and get hurt. I guess I kind of feel like things in my life are OK as they are and maybe I shouldn’t push my luck by wanting more. By wanting you.” She found this agonising and so she stared at the table as she spoke.

He reached out to place an elegant finger under her chin and gently raise her head so that she was looking at him. “I’m sort of scared too Betty. I haven’t dated a lot. My only serious relationship was my high school girlfriend and it was a train wreck. I tried so hard to make her happy but I just never could. She was struggling with a lot of stuff, I was dealing with family issues, we were both in a gang and then eventually she told me that she had realised that she actually liked girls. For a while I though that if I had been a better boyfriend that she might have wanted to stay with me but I’ve got through it. We’re actually pretty good friends now. I had some therapy. Not for that, but it helped me get some perspective on why I tried too hard for too long.” She was grateful that he had offered her a glimpse of his life and she felt better able to share some of her secrets.

“So, I didn’t have boyfriends because I was so focused on my education and my career. And now it’s like I’ve missed my window and it’s too late to start.”

“Are you saying you’ve never…you’re a…” he paused, clearly not sure if he could ask something so intimate.

“No, I’m not a virgin. But I might as well be. When you breathed on my neck this afternoon, when you held my hand just now, I felt so much more than when I had sex. Or when sex was kind of done in my presence. I never felt involved in it.”

Jughead was staring at her now. She assumed he was thinking that she was a “frigid bitch” just like the last guy she slept with said because he couldn’t get her to come. He was unusual. The other three times the guy couldn’t have cared less if she got off or not. She wasn’t going to fake anything to inflate their egos but they just didn’t give a shit about her pleasure. Then after the last guy she just decided that the whole experiment was a failure and didn’t bother again. “So you’re saying you’ve only had bad sex? And you’ve never had a relationship?” She nodded, feeling ashamed. “But, and I’m just checking here not trying to big myself up, you felt something physical with me earlier and you like me, like me not just regard me with some kind of affection, like I’m a puppy dog or something?”

“I like you like a puppy dog. But I also like you really not like a puppy dog. Earlier…I was…aroused earlier. When you did the breath thing.” She wanted to curl up like a fortune teller cellophane fish under the heat of his attention.

“Well I think you might have been having the wrong sort of sex with the wrong sort of people. I know that’s bad because I’ve been there. Look we’re not going to rush into anything. I hear you. Let’s just spend some time together, take things at your pace, see what happens. OK?”

So, he was great. And unfortunately that meant that she needed to tell him that she was the final girl. He deserved to know that, especially as he said he’d been in therapy so he must have had some trauma. She couldn’t dump that on him way down the line or he’d think she’d tricked him. She needed to rip the band aid right now and, if it was too much, at least it would be better now than later when she’d really got her hopes up.

“There’s more. There’s a reason that I was so type A, uptight, in control. Something happened to me.” He blanched.

“God Betty, if someone hurt you, God I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking Jug.” She knew that whatever he was thinking, it wasn’t that her father was a famous serial killer who had murdered her high school friends, put her small town on all the ghoulish vacation itineraries and who she had put down to save her family. He wasn’t thinking that. “The Black Hood, you’ve heard about him?” He nodded, not breaking eye contact. “He was my father. I’m the final girl.”

All the papers had carried the story. The denouement had happened at the end of October and it gave the press perfect slasher fare for the spooky season. Her picture had been splashed across the front pages of the supermarket rags and she’d been the subject of several true crime exploitation pseudo documentaries. She was young and blonde and, in the most famous picture, covered in blood. Her father’s blood. So the slasher film epithet seemed made for her. When so many other kids had been shot in cars at make-out spots, or executed gruesomely at the school play, or had their throats cut at prom, she was the last one standing. Her trauma was mocked in a Halloween costume the following year, girls in pink sweaters holding toy guns and covered in corn syrup blood, giggling as their boyfriends chased them wearing black ski masks. You wouldn’t want to go to those parties if you were the final girl, wouldn’t want to go to any parties if the ones you remembered best ended in carnage, wouldn’t want to have friends if all you could remember was Midge’s bloody corpse on the stage as the curtain raised. Jughead exhaled a long sigh. He was a true crime nerd and so, of course he knew the case. He also remembered seeing her picture, staring at those arresting green eyes and wanting so much to put an arm around her. No-one ever seemed to. “I’m sorry you went through that Betty. I can’t believe how you’ve coped. You must have had a great therapist.”

“I didn’t bother. My mother gave me Adderall and I just kept going.”

Jughead looked stunned at that. “Oh Lord Betty. What would you say to a traumatised teenage victim if you met one on a case? You could be kinder to yourself you know. And as for keeping on, maybe you kept on with some things and just closed down other parts? Maybe?”

“Anyway if you’d rather just forget about whatever this is,” she gestured vaguely between them, “then I totally understand. I mean baggage is one thing but I’m sort of towing an Airstream here.”

He swiped a hand across his head and took his hat off. “Detective Betty, if you have missed the signals then I’ll lay it out for you. I think you are amazing and beautiful and sexy. If you won’t be kind to yourself let me try for a while. Please say you’ll go on a date with me.” He was so sincere and so beautiful, with his dark hair falling in his eyes and his expression so soft and vulnerable that she burst into tears and then found to her shame that she just couldn’t stop. There were floods and oceans of tears; all the ones she had swallowed down when no-one came to her graduation, when no-one wanted to share a dorm room with her and when no-one cared if she had an orgasm or not. He was around the booth and beside her in a moment. He held her hands between his own and pressed his lips to them. It was such a pure and compassionate gesture that it made her cry even more. It was lucky that it was the early hours of the morning and the diner was empty because the shame of weeping in front of strangers would be too much to bear.

When she was finally done he called her an Uber and waited with her for it to arrive, “Do you want to share?’ she asked shyly. She couldn’t work out if she wanted him to come with her to the empty apartment that she called home or not and, if he did come with her, she didn’t know if she just wanted to hold his hand more and look into his eyes or if she wanted him to ravish her on the kitchen counter. She definitely wanted him to kiss her. He didn’t do any of those things. 

“No, I’ve got my bike thanks. So ring me OK? Soon? Number’s in the book.” He laughed at his own joke and closed the door of the car, waving as she was driven away.


	4. I Feel Sure That My Wounds Will Heal

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)  


Often in the first half of February the temperature will suddenly rise for a few days, the “February thaw”. Instead of a thin lemon coloured wafer in a vanilla sky the sun is almost as orange as August. A few disorganised New Yorkers, who have only just got themselves kitted out with gloves and parkas and snow boots, throw them off again in exasperation, but for most of the city’s inhabitants, the sound of birdsong and the warmth in the air makes them shrug off their sweaters to walk through Central Park in a T-shirt, licking an ice cream cone and idly considering taking a turn on roller blades like they’re in L.A. There are those, however, that don’t trust the thaw. They carry on pulling on the layers of wool and down despite the unseasonal heat. In a way they’re wise. The thaw won’t last, nothing does. What a shame though, to lose the pleasure of that warm sun and the sweetness of the ice cream just because you won’t risk being cold when the thaw ends, as all things must. And the thaw is a kind of promise too. Spring is on its way.

——————————

The next day Betty discovered from the team that Nick St Clair’s alibis relied on employees and toadies. Her detectives thought that they would break under just a little tension. The financial angle was trickier. It was not good business for him to kill his mother. She had been one of the key assets and her death had a negative impact on the firm’s value. However there were rumours that Eleanor’s hopes for her son had not been realised and that she was savvy enough to know that he was a liability. He might have decided to cut his losses if he was going to be cut off or sidelined. Perhaps he figured that something would be better than nothing.

Betty continued with her African exploration. She contacted the US Consulate in Nairobi. She was surprised at the interest that the consulate staff seemed to show in her call. She spoke to someone that she guessed was a local receptionist but, as soon as she mentioned the names of the two Americans that she was trying to trace, her call was patched through to someone who said he was a cultural attache. Betty was pretty sure she was talking to an officer in the CIA and she was also fairly sure that he wasn’t in Nairobi. He was keen to get information from her without giving her much but she tried to play her cards close to her chest. She told him that St Clair was a person of interest in a case she was working and that she wanted to know where he had gone when he was in Africa. Her CIA cultural attache wanted to talk about Smith, who apparently went by Chic rather than Charles. She didn’t have anything to give him but he didn’t need to know that and eventually she got the information that Smith had been picked up trying to cross into Sudan when it was being torn apart by conflict. He’d been warned in no uncertain terms by embassy staff to forget whatever his plan was but the rumour was that he had made the crossing anyway and was implicated in a number of fairly despicable incidents. Betty parsed that as war crimes. It sounded like Smith was as repulsive as his travelling companion. Her new friend said that he had no record of St Clair even being in Kenya and an alarm bell began to ring in the back of Betty’s mind. She asked if he had a picture of Smith. There was no way he was giving that up so she asked if she could send him a picture and see if he recognised it. He gave her an email address whose very anonymity made it remarkable and she sent across an image of St Clair from their murder board without a name attached. Within moments her contact was back on the phone. “That’s Smith. Is he in the US?”

So St Clair had travelled to Kenya with a friend or acquaintance who had, it seemed, met with some kind of disaster. He had assumed Smith’s identity, committed all kinds of atrocities in a war zone and then returned to the Upper East Side as if nothing had happened. Betty’s questions about his character had been answered. She didn’t want her CIA friend to swoop in and magic him away from under her nose. While his murders were, of course, Betty’s professional priority, it was the fourteen year old girl that he had molested who was at the forefront of Betty’s mind. “What’s your game plan?”she asked her new friend. 

“My dear friends and colleagues at Quantico would be upset if they thought that my…department…was operating stateside. But if the NYPD were to pick up a suspect and then as a professional courtesy asked to exchange information with other agencies then I don’t see how they could object, do you? Your collar, your case. I just want an hour to question him. And I’ll give you chapter and verse on his Sudanese exploits if it helps build your case.”

“Deal,” Betty was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Have you got a name Mr Cultural Attache?”

“Oh several. Call me Kevin.” Kevin said that he could be in New York in the evening which confirmed that he was definitely not in Nairobi. He wanted to question St Clair first so if they were not to run down the clock on the time permitted them before charges had to be laid it would be best to bring him in together when Kevin arrived. They agreed to rendezvous at the Midtown Diner at seven. 

Betty prepared carefully to present her case to the judge. Arresting rich white men always required a little more of a push. Warrant finally granted she found herself outside the court room with time on her hands for once. There was nothing to be done on her leads until she met with the mysterious Kevin so she took the paperback that had been making her fingers itch with curiosity and found a comfortable corner in a coffee shop and began to read. She got to page one hundred and twenty six before she rang the number scrawled inside the flyleaf. When he answered she didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Is he you?”

“Well good morning to you too Detective Betty,” he drawled sleepily.

“Jughead it’s almost three in the afternoon. The day’s nearly gone.”

“I was up late. If you recall. And I’m no longer gainfully employed. There was this hot cop who wanted to date me so I quit. If you recall.”

She was smiling broadly now as she listened to his snarky tone. “Yeah, yeah, you’re irresistible. Is he you? In your book?”

“Who, the running back? No, that’s my friend Archie. Actually he was a quarter back but the lie sounds truer than the truth. And yeah his girlfriend’s dad did frame him for murder and there really was an illegal fight club. The rest of it I made up but the bones are pretty accurate. It’s the most autobiographical thing I’ve written.”

“No, obviously I didn’t think you were the football star.” She laughed.

“Wow, OK. Way to deflate a guy’s ego. I could’ve played if I’d wanted to chase part of a dead pig round a field in the rain and hadn’t been worried about traumatic brain injuries.” He actually did sound hurt.

“Not him anyway. The weirdo, the homeless kid. Is that you?” She was excited by the glimpse into his life that the story had afforded her and it seemed to help even things out. He knew the darkest part of her life and she was getting an insight into his.

“Ah, you’ve got me. Was it the vocabulary again?”

“Well that and the gang and the motorcycle. And it just sounds like you at sixteen. You must have been so cute.” Betty wished she had known him, could have helped him even as her own life was spiralling into chaos and murder.

“I’ll have you know I was a fearsome adversary. Reckless and wild. What’re you doing?”

“I’ve got the warrant and I’m waiting to meet a spook.” Betty couldn’t quite believe that this was her Friday.

“Ohhkay,” he whistled to show that he was impressed too. “What time’s your date? Can I get an hour with you or do I have to book a day in advance?”

“Normally a week in advance but I can make an exception this once. Where? I’m in Lower Manhattan.” Her heart was racing and her normally freezing hands were clammy with perspiration. Arranging to see Jughead Jones was as good as a spin class for cardio. He was in the East Village (of course you are, she thought) and so he said he’d come to her as soon as he’d showered. She pinged him the address of the coffee shop and settled back with her book and a fresh vanilla latte to wait. 

Twenty five minutes later he was announced by the roar of a motorcycle outside the coffee shop window. He took off his helmet and clawed his fingers through his still damp hair and then saw her and waved. 

“Hey, I want you to meet someone,” he said as she came out to greet him with a smile. He took her hand. “Do you trust me?”

“Well I don’t think you’re a serial killer like I did yesterday. So that’s progress.” She laughed but she felt a little nervous about the question.

“Here, jump on.” He handed her a helmet and she stared at him nonplussed.

“I can’t get on that.” It was unthinkable. She was not the kind of woman who could ride around on some guy’s motorcycle. It was definitely not her style. He looked her up and down.  
“Sure you can. The pantsuit is perfect for this. Normally I’m a fan of the skirt and sweater combo but the pantsuit works too. C’mon. But hold on tight.” He exuded such an air of confidence that she found herself swinging her leg over the bike saddle before she had time to process what she was doing. Then she realised that she was going to have to hold on around his waist, pressed against his back and didn’t know whether to run away screaming or ask him to carry on riding like this forever. Ten minutes later she thought it would be the latter. He pulled up outside an office building and took her helmet.  
“OK Betty. Look this might be really presumptuous of me and I’m sorry if it is. I’m taking you to meet my therapist. No pressure. You never have to come back. If you’d rather not then we can go and eat hotdogs or something instead but she’s got some time and she’s happy to talk. You can see if it’s something you might want to pursue sometime. Will you meet her?”

“You think I’m crazy.” Betty said flatly.

“We’re all crazy Betty. Everyone is either crazy or they’re not paying attention. Look I feel better because I’ve done a little work on myself. You’ve read some of the reasons why in my book. My dad’s an alcoholic, I was homeless a lot, I had mommy issues up the kazoo and, you probably haven’t got to it yet but I was a gang leader and I hurt someone. Oh and I got thrown out of a third floor window and I was almost beaten to death. I needed some help. If you’re sure that you’re fine and the stuff with your dad didn’t screw you up at all then, like I said, let’s go for hotdogs. If you think there might be something to learn here we’ll go meet someone and you can decide what to do from there.”

“OK” she mumbled. “I’ll meet her.” 

They travelled up in the elevator in silence. This was not the sort of first date that she had anticipated. The office had Dr A. Burble Psy.D LPC painted in gold lettering on the door and a receptionist in a smart blue suit inside. Betty and Jughead sat in a waiting area for a few minutes before Dr Burble opened her door and asked Betty to come in. Jughead stood as if to go with her but the therapist gave a shake of her head. “Not your business Forsythe. Sit and wait, she won’t be long.”

The office was airy and smelled good, lavender perhaps. The window was open a little and sheer drapes floated gently in the cold air as it blew in. Dr Burble herself was a beautiful woman with laughter lines around eyes that seemed to see more than Betty was conscious was there to be seen. “Hello Betty. I’m Abigail Burble. Don’t worry about anything. This is just a get to know you meeting. You ought to know my credentials I guess. I have a doctoral degree in psychology and I’m a registered counsellor. As well as my practice here I also train counsellors at CUNY. Jughead tells me that you’re a detective. There must be a lot of psychology involved in your work?”

“Actually I have a Masters degree in forensic psychology,” Betty was glad that the conversation seemed to be remaining on safe factual ground.

“Oh, great. Hey, as a colleague you could give me a hand with something. If you don’t mind?”

“No, I’d be glad to help if I can.” Betty was already warming to Dr Burble’s friendly approach.

“OK so I’m going to present a case study to my class. If I give you the bones of it, you could tell me what your judgement would be, diagnosis, prognosis, possible treatment. Any ideas you have would really be great. I’d like to see what it looks like when you don’t know the subject. Is that OK?”

Betty agreed with some enthusiasm. It was a relief not to be plunged into some kind of Freudian dream analysis right off the bat. “So, the client presented as a twenty three year old man who was experiencing difficulties with making and retaining relationships. All types, friendships, professional, intimate. He was extremely introverted to the point of social phobia. He was very focused on his career and was already having success but found that he was not experiencing the fulfilment that he had hoped for in that sphere despite receiving acclaim. He had anger issues in the past but now said that he didn’t feel anything at all. What would you want to investigate?”

“Childhood trauma. What’s happened to him?”

“OK good. That’s what I thought. Turned out that there had been a significant adolescent family and social trauma including but not limited to abandonment and physical harm. Prognosis? Treatment?”  
“Well, there’s a lot of repression happening. He doesn’t feel safe to express emotion. Perhaps he’s channelling all of his psychological energy into his work but that can’t meet all of his emotional needs so he’s unfulfilled. He needs to work through the trauma with a professional and learn that it's safe to feel and express emotions, that he can take control of them rather than be overwhelmed. I guess if he gets the help, he ought to be able to find a way through it.” Dr Burble now looked at Betty with an intrigued and acute expression. She held the look for a moment or two longer than was comfortable and Betty gasped. “Wow, you’re good. Did Jug tell you? About my dad? That’s me isn’t it?”

“Yes and no. You just gave me your diagnosis and treatment plan but the case study is Jughead’s. He gave me permission to use it however it might help people.”

“But how did you know? I didn’t even give you symptoms.”

“Well if Jughead is asking me to meet a young woman I guessed it was because there was a potential relationship. He’s ready, so if there’s a hitch I supposed that it must be that the young woman is hesitating. But she’s keen enough to see a therapist at his invitation. What’s holding her back? And then you told me, adolescent trauma. Oh and you’re a detective with a masters degree. You’re a high achiever…driven perhaps?”

Betty laughed. Partly she was delighted to see professional skill so expertly demonstrated but mostly it was because she was allowing herself to hope that the kind and wise woman in front of her might actually be able to offer her a way to live her life that wasn’t limited to imaginary children and pets, loneliness and self reproach.

They talked for a few more minutes. Dr Burble was keen to identify what Betty’s emotional life was like. She wanted her to recall any emotions she had experienced in the last week. Betty blushed to recall the feeling she had when Jughead held her hand, murmured against her neck but he’d helpfully given her the name of that one. “Arousal” she muttered. Then she recalled the feeling she had experienced when she thought about the little girl that St Clair had abused. “Like a bad taste without the taste, like almost nausea,” she offered the therapist. “Disgust, I guess. There’s fear too I suppose, anxiety most of the time, but I just ignore that, it’s background noise.”

“Well, disgust and arousal are pretty primal emotions. We can work with them. Do you feel safe expressing them? Can you try to work on that?”

Betty blushed again but nodded. After all, the arousal would be for homework, sort of. On the way out of the office Betty made a regular appointment to meet with Dr Burble. She felt truly excited about her future for the first time in years.

Before it was time for her meeting with Kevin she went with Jughead to the park for the promised hotdogs and she explained what had happened at the appointment. Jughead laughed when he heard that she had been diagnosing him and called them trauma twins. When she shyly told him her homework he said they should get to work on it right away and proceeded to tell her about the mechanically recovered meat in the hotdog she was chewing. She wrinkled her nose and looked at the remaining meat tube before dropping it into a trash can. “Hey I would have finished that,”Jughead yelled and looked seriously like he might pull it back out.

“I was hoping that you would offer to help with the other emotion,” Betty pouted. He looked at the last bite of his dog with just a trace of regret, threw it in the same trash can and stepped towards her. 

“OK, just trust me. You don’t need to do anything. If you want me to stop just tap my shoulder. OK?”

She nodded, dropping her eyes to his lips. He held his long fingers against her jaw and tilted her face up to his and then, so softly, placed his lips against hers. As he moved his mouth on hers, her fingers wove themselves into his hair almost without her volition. She found herself pulling his head down towards her, deepening the kiss. She tried to focus on what she felt. It was for science after all. As he kissed her it seemed that her whole consciousness came into focus just in her lips and then, like a trailing plant, tendrils of desire seemed to move to her throat. There was something throbbing there, her pulse perhaps. Then her heart seemed to grow in her chest. She could feel the blood rushing through it as the vine spread around it in an embrace. Stems moved to her breasts. She could feel the fabric of her blouse touching her nipples and she wanted more contact so she moved nearer to him so that his chest was pressed against hers. He ran his tongue along her lips and she opened her mouth, wanting to feel his tongue enter her, hungry for it, sucking it gently. Now the vine had moved into her belly, twisting itself together and tugging, pulsing, pulling. She wanted him, wanted so much more that the kiss. She allowed her tongue to stroke his, softly and his quiet moan almost undid her. Eventually they pulled apart, both flushed and panting. 

“Wow,” he sighed. 

“Whoah” she agreed. “If I didn’t have to go and meet a spy…”

“Oh God, cock blocked by James Bond. I hate my life.”

“Was it OK, really? You aren’t just being kind to me?” She still needed reassurance even if she suspected that he had found the experience almost as hot as she had.

“It was amazing. Can we do it again?”


	5. I am Breaking Open

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)  


Inevitably the February thaw is followed by a cold snap. Some people are surprised by the return of the ice. They had forgotten that there’s at least a couple more weeks of cold, perhaps even a real winter storm. They will have let their preparations fall into abeyance. Wise New Yorkers remember to replace the blanket, warm socks and gloves in their bags in case their bus gets stuck en route, they will allow the faucets to drip so that the pipes won’t freeze and they’ll make sure they have a stock of candles in case the power goes out. As the poet said “The only way round is through” and they know that this final push will earn them the reward of blossom and green shoots, cafe tables on sidewalks and picnic blankets on the grass in Central Park. Sometimes you just have to survive the tough days to get to the easy ones. If you haven’t kept your wits about you though your pipes will be frozen and break and all those warm days will bring is a deluge.

——————————

Jughead dropped her off outside the Midtown Diner ten minutes before her meeting with Kevin. “See you tomorrow?” he asked with a hopeful expression. 

“Maybe. It depends how the interrogation goes. Maybe he’ll just confess and we can spend the day together.” She knew that was extremely unlikely but a girl could dream. She kissed his shoulder since that was all she could access given the helmet and watched as his motorbike pulled away into the red tail-lights of slow traffic. 

Minutes later Betty was being greeted by a friendly, open faced young man in a well cut suit. She supposed it was foolish to be surprised that Kevin would recognise her since he had access to all the secret resources of the state but it still unnerved her a little. He was not at all what she expected which also made her feel foolish. If he’d sported a homburg and a trench coat he might as well have worn a label saying “I am a secret agent.” Kevin sat down opposite her and ordered coffee and a pastry. “I shouldn’t really,” he confessed. “My husband will find a tell-tale crumb and berate me for it but what’s the point in travelling on expenses if you can’t splurge.” Wow, thought Betty, he had told her more about himself in ten seconds than she knew about some of the detectives she had worked with for years. Could he really be a shadowy CIA operative?

“Look, I can see I’m not what you expected. I never expected to join an agency like mine either. I got recruited out of theatre school. We just aren’t all creepy, dysfunctional, misogynistic loners who drink pretentious cocktails. These days lots of us are data specialists or tech experts. The world has moved on a lot since 9-11. So do you have the warrant? Are we going to pick up our guy?”

As Betty opened her mouth to speak, her NYPD cellphone, placed courteously face down on the table, began to vibrate. She had diverted all her work calls to her team so she knew that this was important. She apologised to Kevin and answered. It was Lou, her most senior detective. “Sorry Betty, I know you’re on your way to make the arrest but I have a call that’s come in to your number. The guy says he only wants to talk to you and that it’s about St Clair. You want that I should patch it through?”

“Yeah, I guess. Stay on though. Let’s hope it’s nothing.”

Lou made the connection saying, “Here you are sir, Detective Cooper for you.”

"Detective Cooper, hello. We met a few days ago. Jepson, the St Clair family butler.” Of course Betty remembered. The morning room guy. 

“Hello Mr Jepson. How can I help?”

“I’m not sure that I’m doing the right thing but I don’t think I could live with myself if…Well, the fact is that Mr St Clair has left. He received a telephone call shortly after luncheon and then he spent the afternoon packing and on the telephone to his bankers. He has just taken a bag and gone. He didn’t want the town car brought around and he was quite rude when I asked when the staff should expect him to return. It might be nothing at all and I hate to be disloyal but Mrs St Clair was always so good…”

“Mr Jepson, I’m sorry to interrupt. Do you know who called Mr St Clair?”

“No, I’m afraid not. The call made him very angry though.”

“And can you make any guess about where he’s s gone? Perhaps from what he’s taken?”

“He took his mother’s jewellery. His passport is no longer in his room. Does that help?”

“Thank you Mr Jepson. We’ll be in touch. Lou, you still there?” 

“Yeah, I’m here. Our bird's flying Betty. You want an APB?”

“Yes please Lou. I’m going to check out something else, I might need backup so keep in touch. Oh and send someone to the house in case he turns up. It might be a false alarm. It looks like the courthouse has a leak though.”

Kevin had watched the conversation quizzically and as she hung up he showed that he had followed most of it. “St Clair is our guy right? And he’s on the lam is he? Typical. What’s your lead?”

“Last time he skipped on a warrant he took a cargo ship to Mombasa. Worked once so he might try it again. I need to call the port authority.” Fifteen minutes later Betty had discovered that the Maritime Star was leaving at 2200 from the Port Newark Container Terminal in New Jersey bound for Lagos. She looked at Kevin. “Have you got a car? And a weapon?”

Kevin’s demeanour changed on a dime as she looked at him. Her amiable theatre kid pal disappeared before her eyes, replaced by someone much colder. “Yup, let’s go get the scumbag.”

On the drive to New Jersey, after Betty had placed a call to Lou letting him know where she was going, they made conversation, talking about Kevin’s husband Marmaduke, his cats Judy and Liza and about her new boyfriend Jughead. When the name made him guffaw with laughter she looked him in the eye and said “Marmaduke!” 

She wanted to know how he managed to combine his career with a relationship and he explained that “Moose” was in the military so they tried to align their leave and made sure that when they did get to spend time together that they made each other their main focus. “If you love each other Betty, you just make it work. There’s no other choice. He’s due home tonight so I’m hoping I can get a redeye back. Otherwise I’m on the first flight in the morning and then two weeks leave.”

Betty was surprised at how easy she found it to talk to Kevin. After an hour in his company she felt like she had known him for years. Partly it was due to his straightforward manner but she knew that in the past she would not have been willing to open up to someone as she had with him. It seemed like spending time with Juggie was making her more open to people in general. She liked it. She could imagine spending the weekend in DC with Kev and Moose, double dating, laughing over beer and pizza. She hardly recognised herself.

The GPS directed them into the container port a little before nine. Kevin pulled up outside a low office building and, as Betty got out, he reached into the trunk and pulled out two kevlar vests. 

“Suit up Betty. Better safe than sorry.” They helped each other with the adjustment of their vests and then Betty hurried to get her coat back on over the top as she shivered in the icy blasts coming from the sea. She showed her badge in the office building and found out where the Maritime Star was berthed for loading. She asked if there was any way to contact the captain of the vessel and was given a cellphone number. 

Betty called the number and her call was answered with what sounded like a string of consonants with no vowels. “Do you speak English?” was greeted by yet more consonants with an angry tone. Kev looked at her enquiringly and she mouthed “Russian” with a shrug of her shoulders to indicate that she was guessing. He grabbed the phone from her and proceeded to speak fluent Russian. She caught only “Dobry vecher.” After a few minutes Kev looked back at her. The captain says they’ve agreed to give passage to an American journalist who’s writing about low carbon travel. He contacted them this afternoon. The captain can’t remember the first name but the surname is Smith. He’s supposed to be there anytime now. I’ve told the captain that on no account should he allow the man to board, that it’s possible that he’s a dangerous criminal and that if he boards the captain’s vessel will be held in port, probably for weeks. They hate that. Delay costs millions of dollars. Let’s hope it’s our guy. Shall we get over there?”

As they approached the berth they could see three men in silhouette near a huge vessel. By the gestures and raised voices it was clear that some sort of altercation was taking place. They approached quietly, weapons drawn, talking advantage of the cover offered by the shipping containers. Once they were within twenty yards of the group they could hear one of the men yelling, “The captain agreed it with my office just this afternoon. I’m coming aboard .” The voice sounded familiar. 

Betty called out “Nicholas St Clair, NYPD, stop where you are and put your hands in the air.”

The yelling man span around. It was St Clair and Betty felt vindicated for a moment before she saw the gun and heard two shots. Afterwards, as Kev lay on the ground in a widening pool of blood, Betty would wonder if St Clair was a great marksman or merely average. He had hit his target. If he knew that they were wearing body armour then to aim for the thigh and hit it was a smart move. You had a good chance of hitting the femoral artery so your mark would be on the ground and bleeding out in moments. Maybe he hadn’t thought about that and just fired carelessly and missed the torso. She’d never know. Kev’s shot had hit St Clair just where it should, centre chest and he staggered back but everyone was dressed by Kevlar on this particular red carpet so he recovered, gasping for breath, and raised his weapon again but not before Betty had taken her stance, sighted and fired. She didn’t need St Clair’s signature double tap and one to the head. She was an excellent shot. One shot to the head, blood and bone and brain fragments. Job done. 

Betty ran over to Kev and applied pressure to the place where bright red arterial blood was pulsing from his leg like water from a leaking fire hydrant. There was so much blood. The men that St Clair had been arguing with were running over and she had them take over the pressure while she called for an ambulance and backup. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion around her and she felt as if she were floating above the scene, looking down on the handsome man in a smart grey suit that was gradually turning crimson as his life blood drained away and his skin turned grey and the woman who was yelling into a cellphone, her own cream coat saturated with blood and a man with no top to his skull who lay on the concrete a few yards away.

She didn’t really remember the ambulance arriving or recall much about the journey to University Hospital in Newark. She must have seen when Kev flatlined in the ambulance and the paramedics managed to restore a rhythm but somehow she had blanked it out. She must have given doctors some account of what happened as they wheeled Kev into the ER and got him stabilised but she was putting all this together based on logic and surmise not recall.

Later, having been given a cup of water and a blanket and placed in the corner of a waiting room a nurse came over to her and asked if he could attend to her wound. “I’m not injured. It’s not my blood,” she answered in a monotone. 

“Well, I can see the wound, and it’s bleeding so at least some of this is yours honey. Come on, let’s get that cleaned up while your friend is in surgery.” 

While he worked on the bullet graze that ran just under her ear, he asked her who he could call. She began to say that there was no-one but stopped herself and looked at him with amazement on her face. “My boyfriend,” she whispered. They hadn’t had the talk that she supposed one was supposed to have before calling someone your boyfriend and asking them to come and get you from the hospital when you have killed a man but she didn’t care about the technicalities at this moment. “I can call,” she murmured.

“OK sweetie, you call but I’ll speak to him first. I’ve done this a lot and I know how not to panic people.”

Betty obeyed meekly, handing over her phone when the call connected. “What’s his name, honey?”

“Jughead,” she replied and the nurse whistled. 

“Well I’ve heard some names but that about beats ‘em all.”

When Juggie answered the call, the nurse said breezily, “Hi there Jughead. There’s no cause for alarm. Everything is fine. I’m with Betty at University Hospital Newark but she’s OK. You can speak to her in just a moment. I’m one of the nurses here. My name’s Tyrell, in the ER. Can you just say back to me that Betty is fine? Just say that back please.”

Betty heard a rumble from the other end of the line.

“OK so there was a shooting. Betty’s friend Kevin is in the OR. We hope that the surgeons will be able to help him. Betty just has a little scratch but she’s fine. Thing is, she’s upset and her clothes are a mess. Could you come pick her up? Is that something you could do? Great. You want to talk to her now?”

Tyrell handed the phone to Betty but as soon as she heard Jughead’s voice say “Betty, what happened?” she burst into gasping tears and couldn’t speak so Tyrell took the phone back and said, “Like I said, she’s had a rough night. You come on over here and ask for Tyrell and I’ll put you two together.”

Betty asked Tyrell whether anyone had been contacted about Kevin and he went to find out. When he came back it was to tell her that he had an ICE alert on his phone screen with a number to call. His boss or whoever answered had said they would contact his husband.

A few minutes later Lou and his partner arrived to take an initial statement from Betty. She handed over her firearm for forensics and was able to provide the names and details of the two witnesses even though she had no clear memory of asking them to write them down in her notebook, but still there they were.

Thirty minutes later Jughead arrived with an entourage. Tyrell showed them into the relatives’ room where she had been interviewed by Lou and Jughead flew to her side while his two friends waited in the doorway. Despite all of Tyrell’s assurances Jug seemed to need to run his hands over her to check that she was intact. He stoked her hair and ran his fingers over her jaw and neck, stopping to kiss near the dressing Tyrell had applied to her graze. Then he stroked down her arms, before embracing her and pulling her head into his chest and whispering into her hair. “God Betty, I’m so glad you’re OK. You are OK aren’t you?”

A delicate cough from the doorway reminded him that they had company. “I’m sorry guys. This is Betty. Betts, this is Archie and his wife Veronica. I was at their place when I got the call and they didn’t want me to bring the bike so they drove me.”

Veronica smiled at Betty. “It’s nice to meet you Betty. I wish it could be under better circumstances. The nurse said that your clothes were spoiled so I brought you a few things. I asked Jughead what size you wear but he’s as useless as my Archie would be. He just said you were the perfect size so I brought some yoga clothes. Best to be comfortable in any case. Jug, we’ll go and find the cafeteria and get some coffee. Give us a call when you need us.”

After they had gone Betty began to tell Jughead what had happened. She told him about Kevin, about his husband Moose, their cats. She told him about the call from the butler and the shootout at the port. She told him about trying to stop Kev’s bleeding, about the kevlar. Finally she told him that she had shot St Clair in the head and that he was dead.

Jughead looked at her intently before he said, “Well that had to be done. I’m sorry that you had to do it but I’m glad that you could. By the way V is the friend who he roofied. She was sixteen at the time. She’s always said that St Clair and his friends were psychopaths in high school.”

Ninety minutes later as Betty, now dressed in Veronica’s clean and luxurious work out clothes, dozed with her head in Jug’s lap, Tyrell came back in and told them that Kevin was out of surgery. He was still unconscious but he’d been stabilised. They’d given massive transfusions and his blood pressure had stabilised. Tyrell had also heard that his husband was on a flight and expected to arrive within the hour. Jughead gently suggested that they leave and get some sleep, assuring her that they could come back to check on him in a few hours. Betty was too sleepy to argue so Jughead called his friends and they were soon in an SUV headed out of New Jersey and back to the city. 

The car was just leaving the Lincoln Tunnel when Jughead woke her with a kiss to her cheek. “Hello there sleepy. Where to? I’d prefer if you weren’t alone if that’s OK with you. You’re welcome at my place, no funny business I promise. Or you can go with Veronica and Archie if you like.”

“I’d like to come with you please,” Betty replied. She’d been dreading the empty apartment. 

“East Village please driver,” called Jughead from the back seat and Veronica turned and smiled at them. “Your wish is our command, but let’s have brunch on Sunday. Four Seasons? Maple Manhattans! Please say yes.”

Jughead looked at Betty with a question in his eyes and she smiled and nodded. She could easily have been spending the night in the morgue, she wasn’t going to carry on living like she was in one.

Of course Jughead lived in a fourth floor walk up apartment in a brownstone. She couldn’t imagine anything more him. When he unlocked the door however she was stunned at the size of the place. There was a huge, open plan reception room with a kitchen area, dining table and couch. He had two bedrooms. In Manhattan. The walls were exposed brick and the floors wide planks painted pale grey with a few throw rugs. He showed her into the guest bedroom with smoke grey walls, a large window and a single bed, a desk and bookshelf lined walls. It was clearly set up as a working space with a pinboard on the wall that looked like one of her murder boards and hundreds of sticky notes all over the desk and the wall facing it. The room was fresh and plain. The bed was covered with a soft grey afghan which he pulled aside to reveal clean white linens. It looked soft and inviting. “Do you need anything? Glass of water? Food?” 

“Can I have a glass of water and a hug please?” Betty was getting pretty good at saying what she wanted. 

“Sure thing. Water.” Moments later he was back with two glasses of water that he put on a wooden chair next to the bed. He sat down, leaning on the pile of cushions against the wall and patted the place next to him and she sat and put her head against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat and feeling the amazing warmth of his body. She didn’t know anything else until she was awoken ten hours later by the normal New York sounds of shouting and honking from the street below.


	6. I Will Let Myself Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and smut here. If you're not into that you could skip this one and not lose the thread.

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)

The cold weather does more than slow the traffic and keep us indoors. It has a huge impact on how we behave. Clinicians recognise that people have more sex in the winter. The birth rate peaks in September, October and November showing that December through February is the horniest season. There’s a neurotransmitter called serotonin which dampens down libido but serotonin dips in the darker months so cuffing season can be explained by brain chemistry. And it’s cold out there so we snuggle, and snuggling leads to cuddling and cuddling leads to sexy time. That’s not just common sense; there’s science. Oxytocin is a hormone that gets stimulated by cuddling and when that’s produced it leads to feelings of sexual arousal. A guy’s testosterone production reduces by a third in the hot summer months but in the winter he’s raring to go. I know what you’re thinking, surely all that skin on show in the summer makes people want more sex, but no. Apparently the "contract effect” means that not seeing skin all the time makes bodies seem more desirable. Oh and women are thirty percent more likely to reach orgasm if they are wearing cosy socks. I kid you not, there’s research.  
——————————

She was snuggled under a comforter, her boots were lined up neatly by the side of the bed and she was alone. The clock on the desk told her it was three thirty in the afternoon. As she came to her senses she gasped. She had forgotten about Kevin. He could be dead and she had just left him there, alone in hospital in a strange city. She was pulling on her boots when Jug appeared in the doorway. He rested an arm against the doorframe and then put his head against it as he looked at her curiously. “Got somewhere to be this fine afternoon Detective Betty?”

“Kevin,” she yelped.

“OK, calm down. I’m your information service. First, your James Bond is out of danger. He regained consciousness early this morning. His husband is a man who rejoices in the name Moose, and I have spoken to him at some length. He thanks you for saving Kevin’s life and for taking out the dirtbag who shot him. He is arranging for Kevin to be transported to Virginia as soon as possible but says that Kevin told him that he’d like to keep in touch if that’s OK. I said that it was. Next, a grouchy detective called Lou called your cellphone. This was an interesting one. He asked after you and I told him you were fine but could probably do with a couple of days if that was OK. He said that no-one was expecting to see you before Monday at the earliest. There’s an investigation that you, obviously, can’t be part of but he says not to worry, it’s a formality. Then he asked who I was and who was looking after your son. I told him that I was your Feng Shui expert and that you couldn’t come to the phone because your Chi was being cleansed. I said your aunt Hilda had Alessandro for a few days in Connecticut. I think there’s a farm but I was improvising so…No, a farm is good, the fresh air is good for a kid. I’m sorry if that screws up any other lies but I’m a writer, I wanted a cohesive narrative. Oh and your son’s name is Alessandro after his father who was a travelling artist specialising in egg tempera who you met on a college trip to Tuscany. I can flesh that out if you like. Maybe he couldn’t make living out of egg tempera in New York or perhaps he suffered a terrible fall from a ladder while painting a mural and he told you that you had to go on with your life and he couldn’t be a burden to you. Whatever you think plays best.”

Her head was in her hands but she was laughing now. She felt amazed that in a matter of a few hours she had gone from a catatonic mess to a girl laughing at her boyfriend’s jokes. It felt pretty good.

After Jughead had made her an omelette, because he remembered that eggs make a meal that is appropriate for any time of day or night, she showered and dressed in the pant suit and blouse that he had laundered for her while she slept. His apartment had a washer dryer. She thought she might be falling in love with his apartment. It was her Pemberley. Once dressed and respectable she began to say her thank yous and grabbed her phone to summon an Uber so that she could get out of his way. He was having none of that though. “Let’s take the bike. You’ll be home in no time and you can do whatever you need to do and then we’ll go and have dinner somewhere. Like a date.”

So they went to her apartment in Washington Heights. It was a walk up like Jughead’s which is where the similarities ended. Her windows looked out into the apartment across the street and it was generally a little dark. It didn’t matter because she was only ever there at night and she was usually asleep. Once they were both inside the place felt crowded. Jughead sat on the couch to be out of the way while she made him coffee in the kitchenette. She’d never gotten around to getting much furniture. There was a couch, a wooden crate that she used as a dining table, coffee table and desk and then, on the other side of the same room a bed. Her books were stacked against the walls, her clothes on a hanging rail in a corner. It was clean and neat but looked like she was waiting to be deported and didn’t want to get comfortable. He looked around in some dismay before saying, “Well this is homey. If your home’s a cave.”

“Well, fine sir, I work for the city. I bet my rent isn’t even a quarter of what you pay.”

“It’s not the place, it’s all those little finishing touches that you totally didn’t make. You’re living in a cell. What’re you punishing yourself for? You could have a vase of flowers or a picture on the wall or a throw cushion. I thought girls liked throw cushions. Where the hell are your throw cushions?”

“It just never seemed worth it. If I’m the only person who ever sees it it just seemed sad to try to make it nice. Now you’re here and now I’ve seen your Architectural Digest of a place I feel ashamed. If you’re ever going to come back I’ll make sure there are throw cushions. I’ve got tchotchkes at my mom’s place upstate. I could add tchotchkes.”

“Mmm, I’m not sure. You get two ceramic unicorns in here and you’ll have to sleep standing up. Tell you what, we’ll get Veronica to do something with it. She did my place. I was a bit worried that she’d put in chandeliers and damask wallpaper but she’s actually really good at respecting what people like. I keep saying she should make a career out of it. She totally hates being a lawyer.”

“Shall I just get changed and we can get out of here? It’s depressing me now.”

Jughead smiled at her. “I thought you’d never ask. Let’s blow this joint.”

Where to eat dinner became a major discussion. She was happy to be having such a normal experience. All over the city there were couples negotiating over whether to have Korean barbecue or go to that little Ethiopian place. Jughead asked what she liked and she had to admit that she really had no clue. “I usually just go to diners. I know what everything is and it’s just easy. That place with Cheryl was a nightmare; all that silverware.”

“Yeah, it was so pretentious and I was starving afterwards. We were only there because there’s scene in the book that I needed to research. Jelly actually liked it. Weirdo. I had to stop for burgers on the way home. So, tonight, not haute cuisine. What’s your favourite meal, like anywhere?”

“I guess I have a sweet tooth. Like at Thanksgiving I used to like candied yam more than turkey. I like stews and things. I don’t really like spicy but I think that’s because I’m not used to it. Like, I’d like to like it. Oh and I’m not that into Chinese food. Chopsticks ugh. I just can’t.”

“OK. Well we could go to a diner but that’s playing a little safe. Let’s broaden your horizons just a touch. I have just the place.”

They spent the evening at a Turkish place in Soho. Betty let Jughead talk her through the menu before she chose and she ate more than she thought she possibly could. It was a revelation. There was a delicious stew with some spice in it but paired with a yogurt that she could use to cool down. There were dishes studded with pomegranate jewels, soft flatbread. Everything surprised her with flavour and texture. All those uninteresting meals that she had consumed without thinking about them just to keep strong enough to do her job loomed large in her memory. “Jug, what the hell have I been doing? I live in the most exciting city on the planet, I could eat somewhere different every day for the rest of my life and I’ve just been sleepwalking through it, eating white bread and drinking bad coffee. How dumb am I?”

“You’ve been getting strong Betts. Recovering. Now it’s time to take a risk I guess. Come out of hibernation. It’ll be fun.” He smiled at her softly and took her hand, stroking over her palm with his thumb. “What do you want to do now?”

“Can we go to your place? Is it OK for me to just be there? I’m not sure if I’m ready to…” She hardly knew what she was asking him but he seemed to understand.

“Hey Betts. It’s fine. Your place is, and I mean it kindly, a total dump. And there’s no expectation from me. Not ever, I promise. If you just want to drool on my shirt like last night that’s totally fine.”  
Betty looked at him in alarm. “God did I really drool on you? I’m so sorry. That must have been disgusting.”

“it was actually really cute. You were snuffling again too.”

“Wow, I am so unsexy. I can see why there’s no pressure. Drool and snorting, great.”

“Hey,” his fingers were under her chin lifting her face as he did when he wanted her full attention, “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met. There’s no pressure because I want this to last. I want to build something with you. It’s going to be great when it happens so there’s no rush. But, be assured that I want you all the time, and when you’re ready, I’m ready.”

Betty closed her eyes for a moment as a wave of desire flooded her body. Maybe she was readier than she thought. To be wanted by this man was a pretty potent aphrodisiac. “Let’s go to your place,” she murmured. “Let’s go right now.”

Back at his apartment she stood nervously while he made coffee. “Could you think any louder?” he laughed at last. “It’s deafening. What’s going on in your head?”

“I just don’t know Jug. Like I want something but I don’t know what I want. And I’m feeling things but I can’t name what these feelings are. And I don’t want to lead you on or disappoint you. And if I’m wanting sex, which I guess I might be, I think I’m really bad at it so what’ll you get out of it? I’m kind of a mess. And I’m a coward. And I keep thinking I should just run away but I like you so much that I don’t want to. Oh God, what do I do?”

“Whew, that’s an information dump.” Jughead whistled through his teeth and led her over to the couch and sat next to her. “Ok, couple of things. Don’t freak out but I’m really turned on by you right now. And that’s me, just telling you how I feel. You don’t have to do anything about that. I am totally into anything you want. Also you aren’t a coward. Think rationally for a moment. You know that. And, by your own admission you’ve only ever had crappy sex with people you didn’t know. It’d probably be different with someone you like. There are things that can go wrong, sure, but if both people are into it they can usually work it out eventually. If you want to we can just fool around some, see what you feel like. We could keep it strictly PG13 if you like. Thoughts?”

“I’m having trouble keeping my hands off you. I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve always just done what I thought I should, not really wanting to. Can I touch you?”

“Oh God yes, please… no wait. Pause it a sec.” Betty looked at him alarmed. Was he going to change his mind? “I promised myself that I would be really clear about this before I started anything so I’m going to have to say it. I’ve got a hang up that I need you to respect.” Now Betty was really worried. “Don’t be scared, it’s nothing weird. I just need you not to pretend. If something’s not good or you’re not happy about something please tell me. And for the love of God don’t fake it. Toni, my ex, she faked it all the time. I was a kid and I had no idea until later and it just made the whole thing feel fake. So just, please, always be honest. Can you promise?”

Betty nodded. “I’ll tell you. But I might not know right away. It’s like dinner. Like I didn’t know what I’d like and that egg plant thing was gross but I didn’t know till I tried it. It took a moment and then ...yuck.”

“OK, that’s fine. Just tell me when you know. I’m a little concerned that you thought the eggplant was gross but let’s hope for better luck.” As soon as Betty got the reference she sputtered and collapsed against the couch in shrieks of laughter. “Great, Jones,” he muttered, “You made her laugh at your dick already. Way to break the mood.”

The mood wasn’t broken for long. He put out his hand and stroked her jaw and then leant over and kissed her behind her ear just at the edge of the band aid covering the bullet graze. She let go of the breath that she’d been holding and used one finger to trace the arch of one of his eyebrows as she whispered softly. “You have the most perfect brow line, you know? Girls would pay a fortune to have that created in a salon and you just have it. You’re so beautiful.” He sank back into the couch and breathed heavily.

“Cooper you’re killing me here. Tell me what you want, give me a clue so that I don’t scare you off.”

“Take off your shirt. Is that OK? I mean if you want to.” Would he mind that she wanted to look at him? She began to panic but then he’d reached behind himself and pulled his shirt off over his head, shaking out his hair as he threw it aside. She took a moment to look at the definition of his chest. He was slim but toned and there was a deep V that ran along his hips and disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. There was also a trail of dark hair from his navel which actually made her lick her lips. She stroked her hand over his shoulders and kissed his collarbones. Then she ran her tongue over them. He tasted like brown sugar and woodsmoke. He moaned deep in his chest. She wanted him to look at her like she was looking at him so she unbuttoned her shirt and dropped it onto the floor. Then she reached back to unfasten her bra but he stopped her.

“Can I do it?” He focused just on her eyes and it calmed her. She felt like he was seeing her not just her body. She inclined her head in assent and he reached behind her and unclipped the hooks. Reverently he pulled the bra from her shoulders and then, so softly looked for permission before he touched her. “Lay back,” he whispered. That was when everything became a little hazy, like she was on another plane of existence. He stroked his fingers down the sides of her breasts, again and again. Giving her time to decide if that was good. Then eventually he placed his hands over them, massaging so gently at first and then more firmly until she was mewling with pleasure, lost in a world of pure sensation. Then he was using only one hand and his mouth was on the other side, kissing, sucking gently and then when she was writhing on the couch he took the nipple into his mouth, stroking her with his tongue and she had never been more completely transported. She started to pant and moan and make tiny cries in her throat.

“Please, please,” she whined.

“What? Tell me? What do you need?” His beautiful eyes looking intently into hers, wanting only to please her, needing to be what she needed. But she didn’t know what she needed only that she did. She looked at him helplessly, at a loss but desperate. “Can I touch you? Can I use my hand under your skirt?”

“Yes, yes, oh God anything.” Now he was trailing a hand up her thigh, pushing her skirt up and her hips were lifting off the couch searching for him. Without her intention her knees were opening, her whole existence was needing his hand on her and she almost screamed with frustration. “Please Juggie, please.” Then his hand was on her, outside her underwear but on her and it was a relief for a second until she needed still more. He pushed the lace aside and stroked her. She gasped at the feeling and and then growled a little. He found the bundle of nerves that he was seeking and stroked and rubbed gently with his thumb before those long fingers were moving downwards, caressing and massaging and then inside her, hooking around and moving in her. Her hips were completely outside her control now as they thrust upwards seeking a still deeper sensation and he was panting and groaning and his mouth was on her breast again, teeth rubbing slightly at the nipple. He moved his fingers smoothly, rubbing with his thumb and then everything seemed to still, there was a slow, peaceful place in the middle of the need and the want that he had found for her. She juddered as she came and waves of satisfaction crashed over her from her head to her toes. Eventually she smiled up at him, leaning over her, his hair almost touching her chest as he looked into her eyes.

“Wow.” She whispered. “That never happened before.”

“What, never? Not even on your own?”  
“Nope. Never worked it out on my own. You’re a maestro.”

“God woman, stop inflating my ego. I’m a straight white guy, we don’t need any more validation.”

Betty looked at him from under her eyelashes in a shyly calculating way and reached for the buttons of his jeans. He put a hand over hers to stop her and she pouted. “Hey, you don’t need to do anything. It’s all about you Betts.”

“I want to touch you. Please? You can’t take a girl to Six Flags and only let her try one ride.” She pulled herself up onto her knees on the couch and kissed his chest, moving slowly down to his belly towards that tempting stripe of dark hair.

“Oh God help me I’m powerless over you. Just listen, you don’t have to do anything. You can stop whenever you want. Don’t pretend. Please?” He sounded so vulnerable but there was a bulge in his jeans that was exerting a hypnotic fascination for Betty. She placed a palm over it and he shuddered and exhaled. He took his hand away from hers and she went back to unfastening the buttons that were keeping her from her goal. He wasn’t wearing underwear and he sprang free when she undid the last button. She inhaled softly and stroked him and he let his head fall back against the cushions of the couch with a moan of pleasure.

“You’ll have to teach me. I’m not an expert at this. I’d hate to hurt you.” She took him in her hand and stroked him curiously feeling him throb against her fingers. She circled him with her hand and pumped a little tentatively. “Is that good?”

“Longer strokes are better. Oh yeah, that’s good.” She was worried as she moved her hand that she was pulling his silky, delicate skin so she took her hand away and he looked at her, scared that she was having second thoughts but when she licked her hand to lubricate it his eyes closed and he shivered like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. She went back to the task that was very much in hand and took notice of the way his brow furrowed when she lost the rhythm, how his breathing was becoming faster as he began to lose control and then she hitched a leg across his thighs and began to rub herself against him as she stroked him. “Oh fuck, oh baby, that’s good.”

“I want to put my mouth on you. Is that OK?’  
His eyes flew open and he stared at her. “You want to? Not that you think I want you to? This is great, it’s enough, you don’t need to…”

“God Jug I really want you in my mouth. Please?”

“Fuck, yes. Oh my God what did I do to get this lucky?” She didn’t take him far into her mouth, she didn’t feel like that was something she had the technique for yet. She carried on with the stroking and then ran her tongue over the tip of him, licking and kissing and then finally, as she heard his breathing become ragged and uneven she took him deeper and sucked. “Betts, I’m close, baby you don’t have to…Betts…”. He spasmed in her mouth and she was surprised by how much there was but she liked it. It was filthy, shocking and she wanted it because it was him. She’d never been so turned on in her life.

He lay back against the couch and sighed contentedly but then she became aware of those blue eyes fixed on her. “Is there time for one more roller coaster?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Let me show you. Just relax and don’t worry. If you don’t like it just tell me and I’ll stop. Can I take this off?” He tugged at her skirt. She stood and undid the catch so it fell to the floor and he hitched an eyebrow at her underwear so she took a deep breath and pulled them down too. “Whelp, that’s it. I’m ruined for other girls now,” he muttered almost under his breath.

“Now you. I feel weird otherwise,” she protested.

He stood and toed off his boots and kicked his jeans across the room. He was unbelievably attractive. “Hey Jug?”

“Yeah? What?”

“I always thought that I didn’t have a type. Like no preference for blonde or brunette or whatever. But that’s wrong. You’re my type. I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh girl, I am going to rock your world. C’mere.”

He lay her down, naked on his couch and he kissed her neck and her breasts. He ran his tongue down the hollow that led to her belly button and dipped into it, making her writhe and giggle. Then her reached down with those long toned arms and stroked up the insides of her legs from ankle to inner thigh. Just as she thought he would touch her he took his hands away and stroked her from the ankle again, all the time kissing her stomach and hip bones. Over and over again he brought his hands almost to where she needed them and over and over again back to the ankle until she thought she would die if he didn’t touch her. “Please Juggie, touch me, please.”

“I want to use my mouth babe. Just trust me. If you don’t like it I’ll stop.” She felt nervous but she was so desperate from his teasing that she didn’t much care what he used and so she whispered, “OK, I trust you.”

He didn’t do anything right away, he kept on with the stroking and the kissing until she just couldn’t bear it anymore. “Put your damn mouth on me already,” she moaned and he did. He used his fingers to stroke down her and then his mouth was on the centre of the sensation, sucking and licking and those long, elegant fingers were inside her thrusting and hooking. It was incredible. She was totally open to him, the most vulnerable that she had ever been and yet that just made it more exciting. Suddenly something changed and he was circling the nerves with his thumb and it was his tongue that dipped in and out of her and that felt like she was being transfused with champagne. She didn’t have words so she grabbed his hair and pulled him even closer and he moaned against her and everything fell apart. If he could just do that to her all the time she could die a happy woman.


	7. After One Long Season of Wanting

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)

——————————  
What could be better on a Sunday in February, when it’s freezing outside, than a long, lazy brunch? The Garden at the Four Seasons in New York is legendary. It’s expensive so be sure to have a rich friend treat you. Or, if it’s out of reach, make yourself a Maple Manhattan and pretend. At the Four Seasons they use a special whisky. The distillery take used whisky barrels, send them to a maple syrup manufacturer who makes syrup in them, decants the syrup and sends the barrels back and then they age the whisky in them. That’s so much effort that it just has to be good.

MAPLE MARTINI  
2oz Bourbon whisky  
1/4oz Martini Rosso  
1 tsp maple syrup  
1 pinch brown sugar  
Put everything in a mixing glass, fill with large ice cubes, then stir 15 times one way and 15 times the other way. (Apparently it’s to melt the ice the perfect amount but it’s nice to have a ritual too.) Strain into a chilled martini glass and serve.

——————————

The next morning Betty woke up with Jughead’s arm wrapped around her waist, his face buried in her hair. She vaguely remembered collapsing into his bed after they had begun to doze off during a rambling conversation about the relative merits of Hitchcock over Capra. Mind blowing sex and interesting views on twentieth century film, get you a man who can do both. Oh, that’s right, she had. She lifted his arm gently to head into the kitchen to make coffee when his phone began to ring. The caller ID said Veronica so she swiped to answer.

“Hi Veronica, it’s Betty. Are we still going for brunch?” she said once she was out of the bedroom so as not to wake him.

“Girl, you are there early this Sunday morning. Did you go over to collect him for church or did you have a slumber party?”

She was prevented from answering by Jughead’s arm snaking around her and landing firmly on her breast. “Oh, here Veronica, he’s awake now. I’ll let you talk to him.” She extricated herself and kissed him on the nose as she danced out of his grasp to the bathroom. She didn’t even remember that she’d killed a man on Friday until the hot water had been running for five minutes. She thought about what Abigail Burble had said about closing down her feelings so she tried to find any remorse that she was burying but all she could find was longing for Juggie and anger at what St Clair had done to Kevin. If she was repressing she was doing a hell of a job.

They Ubered to brunch because Jug expected to be forced to drink at least one Maple Manhattan and he had an absolute rule never to drink when he had the bike. She asked him if he thought it was strange that she couldn’t feel guilty about killing St Clair and he shrugged. “I don’t think you should feel anything. There’s no right emotions. There just is what there is. If you felt guilty everyone would be telling you that you had nothing to feel bad about so I guess it’s all good. How are you feeling about brunch?”

She tried to inventory her emotions. It was hard because she had spent so many years denying that she felt anything that she struggled to bring them to the surface. “I guess it’s excitement. I’m nervous but I also want to be nervous. Excitement right?” She lowered her voice and looked into his eyes, “Like when I imagine us having sex. Nervous but so going to do it anyway.”

“That’s evil. We’re almost there and I’m hard. How can I get through brunch like this? Shall I get him to turn around and take us back?”

“No,” she protested. “Maple Manhattans.”

Over a rather alcoholic brunch Betty found out the origin story of the three musketeers. Jug and Archie had grown up together and had even been foster brothers when Jughead’s dad had been too drunk or incarcerated to raise him. Then, when Jug was in college and Archie was a struggling musician, they had gone to a Josie and the Pussycats gig. “Arch dated them.” smirked Jughead. 

Archie protested, “No, I only dated Josie and Val. Not at the same time,” he clarified. “And we stayed friends. So I went along to the gig.”

“And there I was. The girl of his dreams. My best friend in high school was Josie’s roommate so we found ourselves together backstage and the rest is history.”

“And I’ve been a third wheel ever since,” laughed Juggie.

Veronica complained about her job in a corporate law office. She was bored and unstimulated. She needed a creative outlet and this wasn’t it. Archie was successful as a music producer but he’d hoped to be a musician so spending all day, everyday working to make other people successful was hard. His dad had taught him the construction business and so he and Veronica were thinking about making the leap into commercial property development. It was a big decision because they would be spending big if they were going to live that dream in Manhattan so they were thinking twice before leaping. 

Later, back at Veronica and Archie’s amazing penthouse off Lexington the guys were playing video games and wrestling like puppies while Veronica and Betty sat on stools at the kitchen island drinking white wine and getting acquainted. “He’s a catch Betty,” V said with deep affection in her eyes. “We’re total opposites but we love each other like family. Actually, given our families, scratch that. We love each other better than family. He’s the most loyal man in the world other than my Archikins. He’s honest to a fault, I mean literally. It’s a fault. He’s pretentious and he’s a smartass but you must know that already.”

Betty laughed. “He used sesquipedalianism in a sentence without irony.”

“Oh my God. And you still went to bed with him. You are too forgiving.”

Betty blushed but recognised an emotion that she had all but forgotten. She was proud of him and proud to be with him. She leaned into it. “He has other very fine qualities V, that mean I’m happy to overlook his sesquipedalianism. Really fine qualities.” She opened her eyes wide and looked meaningfully at Veronica over the rim of her wine glass.

“Oh God B. TMI. He’s like my brother. Eww. I can never unhear that.”

Eventually they began to talk about the events of Friday night. Veronica knew that Betty had shot St Clair and she told her about how he had drugged her at their junior prom. Fortunately her friend Katy had seen him more or less dragging Veronica out of the ballroom and gathered reinforcements. They rescued V and St Clair got a beating that kept him away from her after that. “But honestly I always though his friend Chic was way creepier.”

Betty was suddenly alert. “You knew Chic too? We actually think he was another of St Clair’s victims.”

Betty explained the circumstantial evidence that Nick had killed Chic and stolen his identity but V looked confused. “When do you think this happened B?”

“Sometime between June and August of five years ago,” replied Betty. 

V shook her head. “No, that’s not right. Chic Smith was at my father’s funeral three years ago next month. I’m pretty sure he’s alive and well and living in Manhattan.”

Reluctantly that night Betty went home to her apartment. She had to go into work in the morning and face the investigation into her shooting of St Clair. She also wanted to follow up on the whereabouts of Chic Smith. Jughead offered to come with her but her single bed and shoebox sized living space was not conducive to cohabitation even overnight. It would also be too easy to depend on him, she wanted to take things slowly and she simply couldn’t when he was there and available to her. “You know what’ll happen Jug. We’ll be riding the rollercoasters all night and I won’t be worth a damn in the morning. I need to sleep.” It was a long night during which she successfully identified the feelings of loneliness and longing.

The next day she was told that the DA had ruled that she had no case to answer and that her action was not only justified but represented heroism in the course of her duty. She felt relieved.

Her team had been assigned other cases over the weekend so she spent some time dismantling her murder board and clearing the conference room before asking Detective Jacobs for some time to look into what had happened to Chic Smith. She also had reports to write and file on the St Clair case and she wanted to see Mr Jepson to thank him and explain what had happened to his employer. Jacobs told her he wouldn’t give her a new case until she told him she had wrapped up the St Clair business and she set to work. 

Later that day, over a cup of Earl Grey tea in the kitchen at the St Clair house, Jepson told her that Eleanor’s will was to be read the next day. It had been delayed by the unexpected death of her son. Even though he was now unemployed Betty got the impression that his grief was restricted to the mother and did not extend to her son. She hoped he would be remembered in the will. After the tea had been drunk Jepson showed her to the door and they passed the piano. On impulse, she picked up the framed photograph of Nick and Chic holding their snowboards and asked Jepson if he knew Nicholas’ friend Chic. Jepson blanched at the name, his face clearly showing his distaste.

“Mr Nicholas was a very troubled young man but it was always Chic that encouraged his worst impulses. I’m quite sure that, if Mr Nicholas had never met Chic, he and his mother would both be alive today.”

Jepson told Betty that Chic had been part of the family’s life before he joined their employ. He suspected that Chic has been responsible for the death of the family dog when Nicholas was seven years old but no-one seemed willing to face the fact that it was unlikely that the animal had simply leapt from a fourth floor window of its own volition. “They say, don’t they, that hurting animals is the first sign that someone will be a serial killer?”

“Well, not quite that. But it’s certainly troubling for a child to harm pets.” Those damn Netflix docs again, thought Betty.

Jepson told her that he had not seen Chic for years, certainly not since Nicholas had left for Africa. He assumed that in the intervening years Chic had found another mark to leech from. He was glad not to have seen him and hoped never to encounter him again. Betty asked about funeral arrangements. It would be in very bad taste for her to attend the funeral of the man whose head she had ventilated but someone from the department ought to be there in case Chic showed up. A statement from him about the events in Africa would be helpful. All the time that she was with Jepson she kept feeling that there was something that she was missing. She had an intuition that there was another shoe to drop and she seemed to be waiting to hear the clunk.

Not wanting to wake him if he had been writing all night, she called Jughead late in the afternoon, as she took a break from reports for coffee and a sandwich. He answered on the second ring. “Can you come over soon? I really need to kiss you. It’s an emergency. I almost rang 911 a couple times. Stay here tonight.”

She laughed. It gave her so much joy to hear his voice. She hadn’t felt this emotion in such a long time. She was actually happy. “OK, OK. I couldn’t sleep because I missed you so it was a failed experiment. I have to go home first and get some clothes and my toothbrush. I should be with you by about seven. Want me to bring dinner?”

“I’m going to cook for you.” He said smugly. “No eggplant though, right?”

“Oh I don’t know about that. If it’s the right eggplant I think it might be delicious.” She giggled at his explosion of laughter. “Later then.”

“Hurry home dear,” he replied as they ended the call.

She worked on until the reports were squared away, asked Lou if he would attend St Clair’s funeral and gave him a photograph of Chic that Jepson had taken from the piano that afternoon for her. It was old but she guessed that it would help with identification if he did show his face. 

Leaving the precinct she had an odd feeling. She even looked over her shoulder a couple of times. She had that sense that someone was watching her, their eyes on the back of her neck. She’d planned to get the subway up to Yankee stadium and then walk the bridge across the Harlem River but it was a long walk and she was spooked. She altered her course and headed for the bus stop instead. She felt stupid to be so nervous. She was carrying a weapon for God’s sake. She wasn’t some defenceless little girl, alone in the city.

She waited ten minutes for the bus at a crowded stop with other commuters and she stood all the way, packed into the space for the half hour ride to the GWB terminus. It gave her time to reason her way out of her silly nerves. 

As soon as she stepped out of the bus station she felt it again, prickling the fine hairs at the back of her neck. She hurried along the crowded streets, grateful for the hustle of her neighbourhood. She never felt unsafe here even though her mother flat out refused to travel anywhere north of East 96th Street. Eventually she could see her building and she began to relax a little. She found her key and almost ran up to the steps, promising herself the luxury of an Uber back to the East Village once she had changed and packed, hang the expense. As she did so several things happened at once. Something cold pressed against her neck from behind, a shadow detached itself from the side of the entrance way and plunged past her on the steps, bright metal glinted in the sodium glow of a street lamp, there was a yell and a thud and a horrible sucking gasp. 

She turned to see Jughead on his knees, blood on his hands dripping from the blade of a wicked looking thin blade and a blonde man on the ground, his hands at his neck as blood oozed between his fingers. On the ground at his side lay a handgun. Without stopping to think she called 911, requested ambulance and police, telling them that an officer had been attacked. She pulled off her scarf and held it against her assailant’s throat after kicking the gun towards Jughead. “Don’t touch it Jug. Just keep it out of his reach.” He stamped a boot on to it and wiped his bloody hands on his jeans.

She had a moment to look at the man who had been about to shoot her and recognised the blonde hair and wide set, heavy lidded eyes from the pictures at St Clair’s house. As she watched he stopped clutching at his throat and became unconscious. It was Chic Smith.

She sat with Jughead on the couch in her apartment as he gave his statement to the officers from the local precinct. Before they spoke to him she had explained that she was an officer working a live homicide investigation and the man who had been stabbed was a suspect. She wasn’t quite sure what he was suspected of but they didn’t ask for more detail. She imagined that everything would be a formality but then they pulled Forsythe Pendleton Jones III’s rap sheet and things got more complicated. He had been arrested for carrying a switchblade, for wounding and, even more surprisingly, for arson. He looked embarrassed rather than ashamed as they went through his history. The officers asked if she was aware of her friend’s criminal record and she used her most brusque professional tone to say that he wasn’t a friend, he was her boyfriend and that of course she was aware of his history and were they aware that he was now a celebrated author whose works they could pick up in any branch of Barnes and Noble? Furthermore did they grasp that if he had not acted as he had that she would certainly be dead? He had not even killed the attacker but had rather used the most limited force possible to save her life. 

The officers shuffled and looked at their boots under this onslaught. Then one of them tentatively mentioned that switchblades are illegal in New York and that they should charge Jughead with carrying an illegal weapon. Jughead suddenly jumped in at this point, explaining that it was a folding knife not a switchblade and that folding knives were not illegal even if they opened with a wrist flick. He rather ruined the explanation by further elaborating that switchblades were for kids because the blades broke off too easily preventing you from stabbing multiple times. Betty gave him a glare and he stopped mid sentence and looked at the floor.

Eventually the officers left with Jughead’s knife. She could tell he wasn’t happy but she squeezed his hand and he said nothing. Four people in her apartment at the same time would have been uncomfortable even if the situation hadn’t been an interrogation. As it was, as soon as they, left she collapsed onto Jug’s lap with a grateful exhalation. “What were you even doing here Jug? Oh, sorry, I mean, thank you Jughead for saving my life. What were you doing here?”

“I just figured it’d take you ages to get all the way to the East Village and I wanted to see you sooner so I rode over to pick you up. Then I saw you coming up the street but it looked like someone was following you. I wasn’t sure what was going on and then I saw him pull a gun so I stuck him. I didn’t even think about it; it was a total reflex. I probably should have yelled or something but I guess my instincts are, well, stabby.”

“Yeah, clearly. And Jug? Arson?” 

“Oh, OK, I thought you’d be concerned about wounding. I set fire to my mother’s drug lab in junior year. It was broadly altruistic.”

“Well yes, I assumed that. As to wounding, if you wounded someone you had cause. And don’t forget I shot and killed my father. Wow, we’re damaged aren’t we? I’m sorry about your knife.”

“It’s OK, I’ve got dozens of them.” He grinned wolfishly and she kissed him hard.


	8. I Will Bloom Here in my Room

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)  


A word about renting property in New York City. The word is… expensive. If you aren’t wealthy then you’ll have to look in the cheaper neighbourhoods but they really aren’t that cheap. You’ll have to consider something smaller and apartments can get really tiny. Or you might luck out and find that a near relative has been living in the same prewar apartment since before 1971. If that’s the case they are probably paying a pittance under rent control regulations which prevent landlords evicting their tenants and making vast rent increases. You can move in with them and if they decide to leave or if they pass away you can take the lease on. Only works if they’re a relative though.

——————————

That night, back at Jughead’s apartment, they ate his home cooked chicken parmigano and drank a little wine. She felt like the other shoe had finally dropped. She wasn’t sure why Chic had wanted to kill her but the paramedics said that he wasn’t going to die, so there was always a chance that she would be able to find out. They were both too hyped on adrenaline and giddy with each other to sleep so they stood in the cold out on the building’s roof terrace and looked at the city while he smoked. He told her about his life in the gang, about how his survival had depended upon decisive action and how he had been reckless about his own life for a long time.  
“Those things that you become when you’re a teenager, they form the way you think about yourself. It was weird this evening, I recognised the guy the cops were talking about, gang, arson, knives. I thought “Yep, that’s me” but then you came in with all the “celebrated author” stuff and I kind of didn’t know who you meant for a moment. But that’s me now. I’m not that dumb kid with a switchblade and no instinct for survival anymore. I guess it just takes a while to sink in.”

“In my mind, I’m always the final girl. Like I want to be more, I don’t want to be defined by what someone else did to me, by what he made me. But it’s hard.”

“We’ll work on it together. You’ll remind me that I’m not Jim Stark and I’ll remind you that you aren’t Laurie Strode.” They looked at the lights until she shivered and pulled her coat around her more tightly. He glanced at her before he whispered, “Hey, wanna ride a roller coaster?” He wore that same wolfish expression and she bit her bottom lip and nodded and they giggled together as they ran down the flight of stairs to his apartment.

He was less anxious this time. He trusted her to be honest with him and she knew how important that was. He knew that she needed time to work out how she was feeling, that her emotions were rusty and took a while to start up. They stood by his bed and looked at each other deeply and intensely. “I’ve got sort of a fantasy,” he said.

She exhaled through her lips as her heart pounded. “Tell me,” she demanded. 

“I’d like to undress you and lay you on my bed and touch you and stroke you and make love to you and make you scream and all the time you don’t do anything except enjoy it. I think that would be so hot. Will you let me do that?” She closed her eyes at the image that he conjured for her and felt her belly tense with lust for him. 

“OK, I guess I could indulge you, since you saved my life with your big, long knife.”

“Wow, metaphorical dirty talk. I am here for that.” he smiled, delighted by her.

He unbuttoned her blouse and stroked his fingers against the tops of her breasts where the lace of her bra lay against her skin. With the flats of his hands he eased the shirt from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. He unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them down, kneeling to kiss her legs as he eased the fabric from her. Then, standing, he pulled her breasts up out of the cups of her bra, stroking and kissing them. One of her nipples was in his mouth and he was sucking on it while he unfastened the clasps and threw it to the floor. Then he eased her underwear down her legs, placing the flat of his hand between her legs and sighing to feel how ready she already was for him. With an arm behind her he lay her on the bed and stood over her. She didn’t understand why but having him, fully dressed and standing over her while she was so naked and vulnerable was almost unbearably exciting. She trusted him completely and gave herself to him without hesitation. To give over all control to him made her feel freer and lighter than she could ever remember. To give him this made her feel powerful. He took an ankle in each hand and spread her on the bed in front of him. Without expecting to she began to whimper for him to touch her and he was on her in a moment. His hands ran down the sides of her body from shoulder to waist to hip to knee and back up, taking his time. Then he focused on her breasts again, stroking, kissing. While he sucked on her nipple he looked up at her, dark hair over blue eyes and she trembled with how much she wanted him. Then he was gone, all contact lost and she realised he was throwing off his clothes. As he knelt back on the bed he whispered, “I’m so hard, it was painful.” 

He began to massage her breasts, increasing the pressure as she arched up towards his hands and she moaned when he found exactly how firm she needed him to be. Then, watching her intently, he twisted her nipple between his fingers and she gasped and nodded, so he did it again, the slight pain travelled down the centre of her body and made her thrust her hips towards him and he smiled. She could see him making a mental note and his fascination with her pleasure excited her still more. She wanted, very much, to take his dick in her hand, in her mouth but when she raised a hand from the bed he placed his hand over her wrist. There was very little pressure, she could have moved if she had wanted to and he looked at her again from hooded eyelids, checking, and she nodded again. He pressed a little harder and her mouth opened and she mewled with the intensity of it. He shifted to kneel beside her, moved both her arms above her head and held her wrists with one of his large hands while he used his other hand to part her legs still further. “Do you want me to talk to you, to tell you how much I want you, how wet you are?” And she found she didn’t. The unspoken communication with glances and sounds seemed so much more intimate. Words made it seem like a performance, so she shook her head and she felt her brow furrow. “Ah, shut up and get on with your job eh?” He grinned.

“Better things to do with your mouth,” she gasped as he stroked the back of his hand against her wetness. Instantly his lips were at her inner thigh. God, he took direction well. He nipped along her thighs, still holding her wrists. The gentle restraint felt amazing and in some part of her mind she knew that it was because it was so clear that he was freeing her from all responsibility, it was a gift. The only way that she could repay him for his ministrations was to let him know when he found something that made the blood pound in her ears and stars light behind her eyelids. He was using his mouth all over her now but avoiding the place she wanted to feel his tongue the most. She was lifting her pelvis to try to move herself to get him where she wanted him and he was teasing her by licking everywhere else with the pointed tip of his tongue. She was sure she could feel him smiling against her as she writhed. Then finally when she absolutely couldn’t bear it any longer he flicked his tongue against her in exactly the right place and she began to tremble. The shaking continued as he let go of her wrists and shifted to take up a position between her legs, gently moving his fingers into her as he circled with his tongue. She needed to let go and experience the climax that was building and yet she wanted to hold it off so that this intimacy could carry on forever but then his tongue was inside her, his thumb pressing against her and she couldn’t cling to control for a moment longer. She found that she was screaming his name as she juddered and trembled and collapsed against his bed.

He lay beside her propped on one elbow as she came back to herself, grinning at her with absolute happiness. “Thank you, it was exactly what I hoped for.”

“No, really, it was my pleasure. It really was.” she smiled up at him. And then, without meaning to she glanced down the length of his body and gasped at how hard he still was. “Is it my turn to choose the ride?”

He nodded and she nuzzled his neck. “I want you inside me. I want all of you.”

“I’m at your disposal m’lady” he said as he lay on his back. She looked at him quizzically. “You’re way more likely to get off if you’re on top. Hasn’t that worked before?”

“I’ve never…” she hesitated, shamed at her lack of expertise. “What do I do?”

“Whatever you want. I’m right here, the jungle gym is all set up. Have fun with it. Just…don’t bend it backwards. That shit hurts.” The pained expression on his face suggested bitter experience so she noted the caution.

She lay next to him and stroked her hand down his body, taking him in the firm hold that he had enjoyed most before. She stroked him a few times but he stilled her hand. “It won’t take much babe. You want to get your money’s worth.”

She leant over him and kissed his sharp hipbones, dipping her tongue into the hollows that his muscles formed alongside his belly. Then she kissed his dick, stunned at her own boldness. She swung a leg across him so that she was straddling his stomach but taking her weight on her knees. His hands were instantly on her breasts. She backed up a little and felt herself slide along his length and he gasped at the slickness. She tried again. Sliding against him was amazing. He stopped her by holding her hips. “Condoms in the bedside cabinet,” he whispered.

“I’m on birth control. Do you need to…?”

“Not unless you do” he replied and in response she used her hand to lift him a little and she sank down onto his length. They both gasped at the sensation. She hardly knew what to do but eventually she found a rhythm that felt incredibly deep but still allowed her to press herself against his pubic bone and she stuck with it until her hip muscles started to tire and her rhythm slowed and became scrappy. That was when he sat up, providing more friction. He took her nipple in his mouth and gently nipped at it to give just that thrill of pain that she had liked before and she was falling over the edge of a cliff but she wanted him to fall with her so she flipped onto her back and pulled at his hips and looked up at him and with determination said “Fuck me hard, now,” and he got the idea and thrust into her fast and hard. His release seemed to push her into another level and her orgasm seemed to last for minutes. When she looked over at him he was spreadeagled on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Hey, you OK? Was it alright?”

“Oh my God Betts. My mind is just stuck on “fuck me hard, now” It’s playing like a porno of the mind. How the hell am I going to go about my life with you in my head telling me to fuck you hard now? Oh my God. I’m just going to be hard forever. Fuck me hard, now. Christ.” His arms were around her and began to kiss her hair and make a rumbling noise in his chest. 

“Are you purring? What are you, a pussy cat?”

“I’m a very happy pussy cat.”he grinned stupidly. “Are you OK? Any notes for me, I mean other than “Fuck me hard now.” which is one of the greatest instructions ever by the way.”

“None, it was perfect, you’re perfect. Let’s never leave Six Flags.”

Betty realised when she woke up the next day that she did have to leave the theme park to find out why an attempt had been made on her life and check that her attacker hadn’t inconsiderately died in the night which would have caused legal issues for her lover. He made her coffee and an omelette while she showered, padding around his kitchen in plaid pyjama pants that hung low on his hips in a way that made her lick her lips. She shook off the lust and, at his insistence, called an Uber to take her to the precinct since she wouldn’t let him take her on the bike. 

Chic had survived the night. She thought it was unlikely that he’d be keen to discuss his life choices with her so she briefed Lou and he set off to interview him, provided of course that her boyfriend hadn’t severed his vocal chords. Lou was keen to meet Jughead who he said sounded like a badass. He was relieved she wasn’t involved with the Feng Shui guy who had come across as a weirdo on the phone the other day. She just smiled and agreed that Jughead was a badass. 

While she waited for Lou to return she took a call from Veronica. Apparently she had been called by Jug since she was his lawyer and he thought it would be as well to have her on a one cent retainer in case of legal entanglements. V was horrified at the events of the night before but felt properly vindicated in her assessment of Chic’s character. She told Betty that she had spoken to her mother about him because he had come up in conversation on Sunday and her mother had told her that the rumour was that Chic wasn’t Nick’s childhood friend but rather his half brother. Apparently Mama Lodge had always been under the impression that Nick’s father had sowed some wild oats when he was already married. While Mrs St Clair was unhappy about it, he took responsibility for the child, took him on holidays with the family, paid for his education but never formally acknowledged him. Then after her husband died Nick’s mother simply wrote Chic out of their lives. Apparently his school fees were already settled up to graduation but there was no college fund so no Harvard for Chic.

Betty reflected on the story of the outcast kid who lost his dad, his brother and his financial security in one devastating blow and how that might have made him resent his wicked stepmother. If you were already the kind of kid to throw a Lhasa Apso out of a fourth floor window it wouldn’t be too much of a leap to murder. Now she wondered if the man that she had shot and killed had actually been innocent of the murders she had been attributing to him. Chic had motive. With Mrs St Clair out of the way Nick would inherit everything and he might be more inclined to cut Chic into the estate than the slighted wife. She needed to get an alibi from Chic to see if he had the opportunity. She wished she hadn’t packed up the murder board. 

When Lou got back to the precinct he reported that he had been allowed to see Chic for ten minutes. He’d lost a lot of blood and was considered to be lucky that his windpipe hadn’t been severed. Betty was pretty sure that it wasn’t luck. If Jughead had meant to kill him he’d be dead. Chic’s story was that he was taking a quiet stroll in leafy Washington Heights when a crazy guy pulled a knife on him. He drew his weapon to defend himself but was overpowered. No, he had no permit for the gun but that was an oversight which he would rectify as soon as he regained his strength. Lou had told him that his story stank but he seemed pretty determined to stick to it. Lou had got a home address and an employer’s name though so they had somewhere to start digging. He pushed his caseload off onto other detectives and he and Betty began to investigate their murders again but on much reduced resources. They decided to get ahead of the game while Chic was still in hospital. Betty took the home address and Lou took the workplace and they agreed to catch up at the end of the day. 

Chic’s home was an apartment in Greenwich Village. It was a beautiful block next to Washington Square Park. Betty wondered if she was quite wrong in her assessment of Chic’s financial situation. If he could afford to live this large there’s no way he’d need to kill off rich widows. He could just open his sliding glass doors and sit on his Manhattan terrace and wait for money to fall on him as it surely did for all the residents of an address this flashy. Betty rang the buzzer and the super, an elderly guy called Abe, buzzed her in at once. Betty flashed her badge and Abe offered her coffee from a stove top pot that looked positively archeological. She accepted and asked for two sugars when she saw how thick the brew was that he poured into a mug. She asked if he knew Chic Smith and his brows drew together. “Yeah I know him. He’s no good. Always in and out all night. Loud parties, keeping other residents up at all hours. I’ve made complaints to the owners but he’s rent controlled so the city never want to order evictions. They just think the owner wants to hike rents. Especially in a bock like this.”

“He’s rent controlled? How did he pull that? What’s he paying for this place? Its got to be worth, what, five thousand a month?”

“Nearer six. He’s paying just over a thousand. Legal increases only since 1973. He moved in with his gramps about six months before the old guy died. So he took on the lease. Would have been crazy not to. Still credit where its due, the old guy would’ve had to move out if he hadn’t taken care of him at the end. Senile. You know how it is. Poor old coot.”

“How did he die?” Betty wasn’t sure she wanted to know. 

“Oh helluva thing. He froze to death. The boy was away one weekend and his gramps must’ve gotten confused or whatever. They wander sometimes I guess. Anyway he was outside by the doors in the morning. Stiff as a board. Helluva thing. I found him. So the boy took on the lease and him and his friend, I dunno boyfriend maybe, can’t tell these days, they renovated the whole place right away. New everything. Took weeks. Dust and shit, oh I beg your pardon, dust and the like everywhere. Still it’s a pretty nice place now. What’s he done? He in trouble? He’s no good but sometimes in this city that’s who rises to the top. Literally.” He gestured towards Fifth Avenue. Betty got it.

“Well he’s in the hospital. He got stabbed and we’re just checking up on what happened. He’s going to be fine.” Betty thought that Abe had looked a little hopeful until she gave the reassurance but he hid it well. “Look I’ll show you a picture. You tell me if you’ve seen this guy with him at all.” She found the picture of St Clair in her purse and Abe nodded.

“Yeah that’s the friend. I never knew what they were to each other. Like they seemed closer than friends but I know enough not to ask about resident’s private business. I just mop the hallways and fix the blocked toilets and let them do their own thing. You want more coffee?”

Betty refused the refill and left her card with Abe in case he thought of anything else. She didn’t leave at once though. A few minutes of lobby loitering paid off when a young woman with a double buggy pushed open the street door. She struggled through the door and Betty dashed forward to help her. She saw the woman look at the stairs, “Heading up? Can I give you a hand?”

The woman looked at her for a moment and decided that her need for help took precedence over any New York suspicion, “Yeah, thanks so much. Can you lift the front of the buggy and I’ll take the back? Up we go. We thought a walk up would be fine but then it turned out we were having twins. Not so fine with two of them and all the nappies and two cribs and…oh sorry I’m oversharing. Tom, my husband, says I overshare. I’m from Oregon, we do that. Not like here. God I’m doing it again. Thanks so much for your help. This is us. Thanks so much. I’m Adrienne… umm?”

“Betty, I’m just waiting on a friend. She’s on her way and I’m going to have to listen to her rant about her neighbour again. Chic? Is that his name? She gets so mad.”

“Oh my God, I know. We get the babies to sleep and it’s like he knows. He starts playing music really loud or yelling or like jumping about. It drives Tom crazy. And he’s so creepy around the babies. One time, a few weeks ago, we were just coming home and he was in the lobby with his friend. Anyway he just looks at the babies in this weird way and says to the other guy…Nate is it? He says “Oh look at the little brothers. Let’s hope they’re always best friends. Let’s hope they don’t screw each other over for daddy’s money.” And then he was saying how brothers should do anything for each other. It was so weird.”

“Yeah, he sounds like such a creep. One to steer clear of for sure. Anyway, you have a good day Adrienne. Nice to meet you.”

And Betty was on her way. She had the start of a trail so she picked up the thread and started to follow it through the labyrinth of Chic’s life. Back at her desk she checked the name of Chic’s “grandpa” through a contact in the rent department of city government. Then she rang a genealogist that she had worked with before and within the hour he called back to say there was no possible way that Chic was legally related to Cy Logano. His mother was Elaine Smith, his father’s name was not listed on his birth certificate. Elaine’s parents were a couple from Idaho with no relatives in the city. He’d traced Elaine though. She had, until recently, worked at a day centre for dementia patients, a centre that Cy Logano had attended until six months before his death. Back to Betty’s rent official where she was able to establish that Cy had given a signed statement that his grandson was cohabiting with him at his apartment. Betty suspected that the old man had signed his own death warrant when he had signed that affidavit. She could picture him, confused and scared in a world he no longer understood. A kind woman told him her son would move in and take care of him. All he had to do was sign this paper. And he had and then he was locked outside his own building, on the street in his pyjamas, freezing and confused and ashamed. Betty felt tears roll down her cheeks and touched them with a fingertip. She stared at the wetness on her hand in amazement. A case had never made her cry before. She had always just moved through the data with cool efficiency but now, the fate of one old man in a city of millions had moved her to tears. She had no idea if she should feel pleased that she was feeling things or ashamed at her weakness. 

She was trying to put together why Chic, who was free and clear given that Nick had taken his secrets to the grave with him, would risk everything by trying to kill her. Perhaps it was simple revenge. That might have been his motive for killing Mrs St Clair if that was what he had done. Perhaps he was a disorganised killer who simply acted upon emotion but that didn’t chime with the possible murder of Cy Logano. He’d established an alibi and, if indeed he had killed him, had done it in a sufficiently careful way that he could enjoy the spoils of the crime. What was to be gained from killing a police detective who was closing up the case without implicating him at all? She was frustrated. It was possible that Chic was a lethal serial killer who was spiralling dangerously or, on the other hand, he was an tragic man who had been subject to terrible losses and had snapped when his brother was killed. 

But he hadn’t been free and clear had he? She had been asking Jepson about him just hours before he tried to kill her. Perhaps he thought that she had learned something that would put him in danger. Perhaps merely asking about him was enough for him to want remove her from the game. He’d been following her from the precinct last night. Perhaps he’d followed her earlier, seen her go to Nick’s place. If he’d been outside he could have seen her pick up the photograph of the two boys with their snowboards, might even have been close enough to see Jepson’s expression. It could have been enough to make him worry that she wasn’t just closing down the case, that she still had the scent of an investigation.

Lou bundled back into the office unwrapping his scarf and shaking an umbrella. He’d brought her coffee. “Had no clue what you liked so I brought you one of those milky things that women drink.” Sexist but she couldn’t deny that she loved a latte and it was delicious, especially when compared to Abe’s witches’ brew earlier. She smiled and thanked Lou. It felt like a connection. He had been to the gallery where Chic worked as a sales associate. He seemed to be good at the job, especially persuasive with older ladies. His boss had a feeling that he was not always professional with them but they certainly didn’t complain and a blind eye was turned. He had been working when both of their male victims were killed. There was good CCTV footage of him, in the gallery doing his job. It was air tight. She felt at least a little relieved that she hadn’t shot the wrong man. On the day that Mrs St Clair had been shot, however, he had called in sick. No-one had seen him until the next day. The boss said that he was generally a reliable employee and even though he had suspected that the illness was feigned he just assumed that Chic had needed a mental health day and overlooked it. He seemed like a man who was prepared to overlook quite a lot and Lou had wondered what Chic had on him. Lou had also reached out to a contact in financial crimes who he’d been dealing with when he was trying to establish a motive for St Clair to murder his mother. He had discovered that when Nick returned from Africa two years before he had been appointed a director of the company which meant that he had a large life insurance policy as part of his benefits package. His mother was, as his next of kin, the beneficiary. The first thing that Nick had done after her death was to change the benefactor of that policy to, and here Betty joined her voice with Lou’s to say “Chic Smith.”

“But does he still inherit if Nick was killed by cops in commission of a crime?”

Lou had asked the same thing. Apparently there was a standard clause that said that the policy would be void if the insured person killed themselves or was killed while committing a felony within two years of taking out the policy. The insurance companies didn’t want people taking out life insurance and then stepping out into traffic the minute the papers were signed. They figured if it took you two years to die then it hadn’t always been the plan. But it was two years since Nick’s policy had been signed. The only thing that would stop Chic from collecting would be if he was implicated in the same crime as Nick. If they were co-conspirators then the policy would be void. So, either Nick offed his mom and got away with it and he ensured that Chic got his rightful inheritance or Nick’s plan failed, he ended up dead and Chic collected the insurance. The only ways it could go bad would be if Nick ended up in jail or if Chic could be shown to be a conspirator in the crimes. Once Nick was dead he just had to make sure the investigation was wrapped up and he could collect. Somehow he had known that she was not letting it drop and had decided to take her out before he could be implicated. That meant that there was evidence to be uncovered and she was going to find it.

That night, Jughead and Betty sat at his dining table over take-out from a Thai place that she found a little more challenging than the Turkish food and she ran through the case. “The problem is, it’s all gut feeling and hunches and intuition. I’ve got nothing secure to build the case on. It comes down to “My friend Veronica thinks this guy’s a creep and her mom says he’s the illegitimate son of Aldo St Clair and his neighbour Adrienne thinks he was weird with her kids and his super hates him.” Put that together with defrauding the Office of Rent Control and I could give a DA a good laugh but there’s just no case. He’s under arrest for pulling an unregistered gun on me, obviously, but I really need to get him pinned down before he gets out of the hospital.”

“Where are all these guns coming from?” asked Jug, through a mouthful of pad thai. 

“Huh?” Betty was trying to cool down her mouth by fanning herself. It wasn’t working.

“Well, they may be psychopaths or sociopaths or whatever but they’re still rich white boys. Who’s hooking them up with illegal firearms? There’s the gun that St Clair used to shoot Kev, the one that Creepy Chic pulled on you and then there’s the one that whichever of them used to off three people. That’s three guns in just a few days. Like, not to boast, but if you need an unregistered gun I can get you one in a day or so but it’s not that easy, and I’ve got contacts and you know my rap sheet.”

“OK, firstly that’s a really good point. Secondly is it wrong that I’m unbelievably turned on by the fact that you can get me an illegal weapon?”


	9. A Little Bit of Tender Mercy

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipN3MrMxJxgGwDRqIjSjA_61RxhCptvXh6ggc5g4iKDHlhOne_cqQqUP9my1Hd_Dkg?key=VDN0OFBtckQxc0hDbUo0R3JXWmJWZTdBd0d2bzdR&source=ctrlq.org)  


Rikers Island is in the East River between Queens and the Bronx. It’s home to New York City's main jail complex. It holds about 10,000 inmates. There are a variety of discrete institutions with clinical and specialist facilities. It has been ranked as one of the ten worst correctional facilities in the United States and the New York City Council has voted to close it down by 2026. Just imagine being sick and incarcerated in one of the worst prisons in the United States, stuck on an island in the East River, in the winter as the wind slices through between decrepit buildings and the snow flurries over exercise yards. Consider it an exercise in compassion, a kind of spiritual workout. You need to practise forgiveness to build the emotional muscle for it.  
——————————

So much of detective work is knowing the right questions to ask. Jug had given her the perfect question. She got the ballistics report on the three weapons under discussion. They had the bullets that had been removed from their three victims and ballistics checked for matching rounds in other cases. Then they had two actual weapons so the ballistics nerds had fired rounds into tanks of water and digitally imaged the grooves left by the machining of the gun barrel and matched them to bullets pulled out of other unfortunate victims. Then Betty and Lou sat for an entire day over files and played find the needle in the haystack or, more accurately, find the slug in the cadaver. Where did these three weapons overlap? The answer was in a gunshot fatality three weeks earlier in Brooklyn. The bullet that the coroner had extracted from Tallboy Petit’s dead body matched the one fired from the gun that Chic had pulled on her. Tallboy Petit had been a suspect in the robbery of a bodega two years ago. The investigators hadn’t been able to make a case and no arrest was made but the bullet fired in that case matched the one that Nick St Clair had put into Kevin. Finally, the bullets in the three hits that started the case matched a bullet that a known associate of Petit’s was serving life for firing into an NYPD officer three years ago as he tried to prevent a bank robbery. The cogs turned and meshed and fell into perfect alignment when Lou turned up the fact that Tallboy had served time in Leavenworth where his cellmate was one Sonny St Clair, Nick’s uncle.

They laid out the case as they understood it, using sticky notes on a clear section of the squad room wall. Chic, an illegitimate son of Aldo St Clair, rumoured mobster, was exiled and abandoned by the St Clairs when his father died. He had, however, maintained his connection with his half brother Nick. He and Nick travelled to Africa together when it looked like Nick would be arrested for rape. At some point Chic had returned home and Nick had used his identity in Africa, either with his blessing or without permission. Nick returned home, his mother welcomed him with open arms but Chic was angry about what he saw as his mistreatment. He bided his time for two years, until the void clause on Nick’s insurance policy had elapsed, getting by as a gallery salesman and part time gigolo and probably murdering old men for rent control. Then either by persuasion or coercion the two half brothers had come up with a scheme to kill Eleanor and share their inheritance, Nick could be free of the responsibility of a business he hated and Chic would be financially set for life as he thought he deserved. They had a contact through their father’s brother who would supply them with firearms. Tallboy underestimated the two Upper East Side preppies who came to buy guns and they killed him for that error. But then the plan didn’t work as perfectly as they’d hoped. The police were onto Nick so he was going to skip as he always did when things got too hot. Fortunately for Chic he didn’t escape. His brother’s death meant that Chic was going to get a huge insurance payout but the fly in the ointment was the stubborn female detective who was still hanging around the St Clair household and asking questions about Chic. He made the rash decision to take her out of the equation not knowing that her boyfriend wasn’t some milquetoast hand wringer but the sort of guy to stab a person in the neck first and ask questions later. It hung together. They just had to prove it.

Betty had been working hunches and guesses for a long time in this case. She had one more she wanted to follow. She got Lou to traipse back to the hospital and get a DNA sample from Chic. Either he’d agree because he knew they’d never find his DNA at their murder scenes or he’d refuse which would suggest that he had been there when Eleanor arrived for her last workout. While her partner was gone she travelled back to the St Clair town house. She was just in time. The will had been read and the house was being packed up for sale. Jepson had been generously rewarded by Eleanor for his years of service and told her that he planned to move to Rhode Island where he had a sister. He was looking forward to a quiet and prosperous retirement. He was in an expansive mood and allowed her to snag Nick’s hairbrush and toothbrush before the contents of his room was sent to landfill. Evidence bags clutched tightly, she was back at the precinct before Lou returned with a cotton swab with Chic Smith’s cheek cells. 

They sent their samples off to the DNA lab and, after Betty had placed a call to Rikers Island, she took her partner for a beer. There was an awkward moment or two when she tried to explain why she had invented a kid she didn’t have but she figured that, if the beer was to become a regular occurrence, she couldn’t keep sending Alessandro to Connecticut or wherever the hell Juggie had put him. “It’s just hard Lou, some of the guys hit on you, others think you're a snob if you don’t want to drink on shift, so it just seemed easier to shut everything down. But I can see it’s not right now. If I want people to trust me and even like me a little then I have to be more honest.” She could see Lou didn’t really get it but he was prepared to think it was a female eccentricity like when his wife and her sister always went to the bathroom together when they went out for dinner and overlook it. Betty found she wasn’t even offended. 

Jughead was in Long Island giving a reading from the last book. She spoke to him on the phone as she lay uncomfortably in her single bed in her barren apartment, quietly hating it. She said she thought that he had cracked the case for her and he told her that it was all her persistence and determination. She told him that her apartment was a grim cave and he agreed and told her he would call Veronica the next morning. By next week it would be better. He said that she could stay at his place until then if she wanted and she did want, she really did. As they ended the call there seemed to be something unspoken hanging in the air. It was the “I love you” that they weren’t quite ready to say, feeling it but not wanting to jinx it. It hung there anyway like a neon sign cheering up a rainy night.

The DNA results were back the next day. It was unambiguous. It was impossible for the two samples provided to have a common father. The rumours were false and the two boys were not brothers. The fact that Aldo had believed the lie suggested that he had been a sleazy guy but that alone didn’t entitle Chic to anything. Betty wondered if he had known that since he hadn’t bothered to seek legal redress for his perceived disinheritance. They took the results with them when they set off for the prison infirmary facility on Riker’s Island to meet with Sonny St Clair. 

Sonny was an elderly man with rheumy eyes and a cough that wracked his thin frame. “Stage four,” he wheezed. “It’s everywhere now but the cough’s the worst.” Betty tried to summon up sympathy but she’d seen his record and it just wasn’t going to happen. She told him that they were investigating the death of Tallboy Petit as well as a number of other murders. She didn’t share her role in the death of his nephew. She talked him through the case as they had worked it out the day before and he sat back in his chair without comment. When he coughed she paused and waited until he nodded for her to continue. When she had finished he said “Well I don’t know much but it seems to me a man oughta provide for his kid. Any man who don’t do that ain’t much of a man at all.”

“But Mr St Clair, that’s just it. Chic Smith is a cuckoo in your family. He’s not your blood at all. Him trying to steal from your people has led to the death of your nephew, Tallboy, Eleanor and at least two others. Look, we did the DNA test. See for yourself.”

She hadn’t thought that Sonny could look paler or sicker than he did but when he looked up from the paper his face looked deathly. “So he lied to me, to me and Nicky?” Betty nodded gravely. “Well then he’ll have to pay.” And Sonny St Clair told them the whole story and signed his name to it. They were only just in time. He passed away that night.

Chic was arrested for the homicide of Tallboy Petit, three counts of conspiracy to homicide, assault on a police officer and fraud with regard to the rent control issue. Betty was going to try to pin the death of Cy Logano on him if she could but it was a long time ago and she wasn’t sure she’d get the evidence she needed. Sonny’s statement had been a godsend in the other cases. When Chic had come to him, telling him that he was being disinherited, he had put him in touch with Tallboy. He knew Tallboy could supply him with weapons and, on a visit to an oncology unit in the city, Nicholas and Chic had managed to sneak an unsupervised visit with him where they’d laid out their plan. He hadn’t known about the insurance policy and he hadn’t known that Tallboy was killed with a gun he was supplying to Chic. He had even seemed remorseful for a moment, before the coughing had taken up his full attention.

All that week Betty was getting whiplash from trying to make sure every i was dotted and every t was crossed on her murder case while fielding calls from Veronica about her apartment. V had swooped in on her on Thursday evening as she packed a bag to go and spend the night at Jughead’s place,while Archie waited in the car. “Oh B, can’t we do better than this? Archie can’t come up. He’s worried someone will steal the wheels let alone the hubcaps.”

Betty pouted. “I like the area just fine. It’s just the apartment that’s a bit depressing.”

“Depressing! It’s making me want to drown myself in the damp. Well, Veronica Lodge Andrews will do her best. I’m not saying it will be a tour de force but we can make it better I’m sure. Now, swatches.”

She pulled a book with fabric pages from an Hermes handbag and perched on a corner of the sofa as though it were toxic while asking Betty about her favourite colour palette. Betty gradually realised that she had no taste, not that she had bad taste, but she just didn’t prefer one thing over another. Her mother had always had her room painted candy pink and added the famous tchotchkes and since she’d lived alone she’d just put her books into a place and started living there. “I like what you did with Juggie’s place,” she mentioned mildly and V smiled patiently.

“Of course you do. You’re crazy in love with him and it’s his spirit made manifest in paint and fabric. What we need to do here is find your essence so you feel at home and he loves coming here.” Betty blushed but she denied nothing. 

Veronica patiently explored the swatches with her and gradually she found that she liked a colour that V called “heather” and she liked the pictures that she’d brought of apartments with pale walls and dark floors and she liked steel counter tops and flush kitchen cabinets. After almost an hour she felt exhausted by having to have so many opinions but V was satisfied that she could begin. She held out her tiny hand with the demand “Spare keys. Now pack that bag. We’ll drop you at Holden Caulfield’s. You can come back next week. No peeking.”

“But what do I owe you? I have a budget but…”

“Don’t concern yourself about that darling. You pay what you can manage and the rest will be a business expense. I’ll use it for my portfolio. You know I’m planning a career change. You’ll be in magazines. It will be a very dramatic before and after. Oh my God B, is this thing a packing case? How have you lived like this? Come on andiamo darling. Archikins is waiting down there like a patient angel.”

Now she would hear her phone buzz as she worked out a timeline or compiled a ballistics report and find that Veronica needed her to choose between a matt and a gloss tile, between a bar faucet and a bridge faucet or between “sparkling grape” and “mulberry.” Fortunately she had her appointment with Dr Burble where she could vent about stress. Her therapist pointed out that she was learning to balance competing demands upon her time and attention and asked her to reflect on when that had last happened. It was a long time ago, when she had had friends and interests other than her work, when she had had a real life. She saw that the whiplash was a good thing, a great thing and she left the office smiling to herself.

Lou and Betty finished compiling their case on Friday morning. Chic was in custody since his doctors had declared him well enough to be discharged from hospital. Lou had led on the interviews because Betty was a victim as well as a lead detective on his case. She was permitted to watch the interrogation through one way glass and she admired Lou’s persistence and quiet forcefulness with the suspect. When Chic learned that Sonny had made a statement before he died she saw his confidence begin to crack. When Lou took out the DNA report and read it to Chic he began to sob. Betty had printed a copy of a photograph of Cy Logano that had been taken at the day centre he had attended and when Lou came out she grabbed a thick file and clipped the picture to the front. “Just carry it. He’ll think we have more than we do.” When Chic saw it he turned grey and began to shake. His attorney asked for a break and, when Lou returned, the attorney told him that Chic was ready to do a deal. He would confess to the conspiracy charges but not to the murder of Cy Logano or Tallboy Petit. Since conspiracy carries a life term and they had no proof that the had killed either Cy or Tallboy it was good deal for the state and the DA took it. Chic was shipped off to pre-trial custody on Riker’s Island. No-one would miss him.

Betty was disappointed even though she knew she should just take the win. A confession was the holy grail for a detective but to have failed Cy was a bitter pill. Even Tallboy deserved better than he had got. Though it was a life sentence Chic would, one day, be a free man again and then what havoc would he wreak? Betty was not an advocate of the death sentence but she did feel worried that maybe she had failed in her duty to protect the public. 

She need not have worried. At 4p.m. she received a phone call from an orderly in the prison infirmary on Riker’s Island. Chic had been shanked within an hour of arriving in prison. There was an investigation in progress but no witnesses. The investigator in this case had got what Betty had wished for in her case though. Someone had left a message in Chic’s blood on the bathroom stall where the body was found. It said “Sonny says see you in hell.” So Sonny St Clair had reached out from the grave and dragged Chic down with him. A criminal might be able to throw himself on the mercy of the court and receive some measure of forgiveness from the state but the mob does not forgive. It will take swift and bloody revenge for any slight. Chic had cheated the St Clairs and brought about Nick and Eleanor’s deaths. He had killed Sonny’s friend Tallboy. He was not to be permitted to live.

Betty stared at the phone once she had ended the call. She really had no idea how she felt. There was sadness that the boy with the snowboard over his shoulder had come to such a terrible end, anger that the state had failed to protect someone in its care, satisfaction that Chic would never hurt another person, remorse for that gloating if that’s what it was and so many other feelings. She took a moment to simply experience them all and then she went and told Lou. His advice was to put on her coat and start her weekend so she called Jug and asked him to come and get her. 

As she pushed open the doors she found that she was feeling hope and excitement. As she looked down the avenue she could see the new cherry blossom ruffle in a slight breeze. There was a bird singing somewhere. The weekend stretched before her full of possibilities and experiences. The public were safe, she had done her duty, she had forty eight hours of leisure and a man she loved to spend them with. All was well with Betty Cooper. Just to place a cherry on top of the sundae her unbelievably sexy boyfriend was waiting outside the station, astride his motorbike, holding out a spare helmet for her and licking his lips when she hitched her skirt to climb on behind him.


	10. After One Long, Sweltering Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipNrHAIjKQZ2KqZ3udlptibmBbAoQ1_qXjEQduIsi9c5h2agvP0SYtBb4M9YOMCeUg?key=STh1aXA0MEpEejlhMjQ4VlJJVlJiVHBUR2EtTkJR&source=ctrlq.org)   
> 

September might just be the perfect month in New York. The days are long, daylight lasting from six in the morning until six in the evening. It’s still warm enough to go out in just a shirt most days, although you’ll need a cute jacket at night. You could always borrow your boyfriend’s; they love that shit. It’s not too hot on the subway and when it’s crowded you’re not pressed up against someone who has been sweating in a suit for twelve hours. The students are streaming back to CUNY, Barnard, Cornell and Columbia with suntans and festival wristbands and an unquenchable enthusiasm for world music and intricate tattoos.  
The streets are a little less crowded than in the height of summer and the cooler weather means that even New Yorkers are slightly more mellow. In other words it’s the perfect mix of cool and warm, day and night, new and old, relaxed and exciting. If you can go with people you love there’s no better place to be than Prospect Park on a Saturday in September.  
___________________________

She awoke to sunlight streaming through the window and illuminating crumpled sheets and the smooth tanned skin of her boyfriend’s shoulder. He was nuzzling against her neck and stroking her breast softly. “Jug, stop. We can’t. JB’s next door.”

“I can be so quiet, like a tiny mouse. No one will ever know that I was even here.” As he finished the sentence his hand snaked between her thighs and she gasped. There was part of her brain that knew that she should remove his hand firmly but there was a much larger and more determined part that moved her own hand to the front of his pyjama pants to stroke him through the plaid. Now he moaned and it was not like a tiny mouse.

“Jesus, you two. You’re insatiable,” Jellybean yelled through their closed bedroom door. “I’m going to get bagels. I’ll be thirty minutes tops so get it done and be finished when I get back. I want to be there and moved in before lunch. Onion with cream cheese and salt beef right Jug? Still the weird thing Betty?”

“Two, extra pickle,” yelled Jughead.

“Not weird,” Betty replied.

The door slammed as JB went to forage for carbs. “It’s pretty weird Betts, like a salt bagel is already a challenge and then raspberry cream cheese? How did you even come up with that?”

“Well lover, you’d better get to it now because you’re not touching me after your onion and pickle extravaganza. And don’t yuck my yums.”

Afterwards Betty was taking a shower while Jug sat on the edge of the bathtub. “You like your apartment right Betts?”

“I love it. You know I love it. Does V need affirmation or something?”  
“But specifically what do you like about it? Say top three?”

“I like my bed. It’s a great bed.”

“Yeah, it is a great bed.”

“I like the kitchen island thingy. You should get one of those here. It’s so useful. And I like that V did it for me and asked me about it and cared about what I’d like.”

“OK so what don’t you like about it?” He asked as Betty stepped out of the shower and he passed her a towel.

“It’s too far from the subway. You’re not there. Too small to have people over.” She answered quickly so he guessed that she’d thought about it. Worth a go Jughead, he thought.

“But you like it here? What’s good about here?”

“The sex is pretty great here. I really like that Italian place just down the street. I love you and you live here.” She kissed him on the nose as she started to towel her hair.

“Move in here then? Bring your bed and your island thing and be here all the time.” She stopped with the towel over her head, her eyes wide. 

“Are you sure? Don’t you need your space?”

“You are my space Betts. I always feel better when you’re here. I love you. Please?”

“Of course I will. I thought you’d never ask.”

All of which meant that they weren’t exactly finished when JB got back with bagels and coffee.

Three hours later Jughead carried the last box through the door and threw himself down on the bed. “What the hell JB? Are you bringing housebricks with you?”

“Vinyl,” Jellybean told him smugly. “and get off my bed. You’re sweaty and gross.”

“God why can’t you have downloads on your phone like a normal kid? C’mere Betts, you like me sweaty don’t you?” he raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“Mmmm, yes I do.” Betty replied and threw herself next to him on the bed and licked the sweat from his neck. JB made a gagging sound in her throat.

“You two, get a room that’s not my dorm. That’s literally the most disgusting thing I have ever seen. Oh God, my eyes. Look I’m settled in. Just go.”

“OK but you’re coming to dinner at Veronica and Archie’s on Wednesday right?”

“Yes, I’ll do anything if you’ll just leave. I’m like a freak having all these people fussing over me. This is the very reason I told Dad he couldn’t come. I thought you guys would be cool about it.”

”OK, OK we’re going,”Jughead headed towards the door but Betty lingered behind for a moment and spoke to his sister quietly. “JB? Here, take this.” She handed her a card. "It’s my work cell. If you need anything, ever, you call me. Day or night. If you need a ride I can get you a squad car at 3 in the morning and Jug never needs to know. OK?” The younger girl smiled at her.

“Thanks Betty. And thanks for looking after him too. He’s been so happy.”

“Yeah, he makes me happy too. So you be happy. Make the most of it. Join the rock climbing society or whatever. Don’t let it pass you by. We love you.”

She headed down to Jug, Veronica and Archie in the SUV downstairs, leaving Jellybean to begin her college experience.

“Will she be OK? Did you see her roommate’s side of that place? I can’t imagine they’ll get along.” Jughead worried as Archie drove away. “Her side was all fairy lights and stuffed toys and JB had that huge Nirvana poster and all the black nail polish. And what’s with her boots? Who knew you could get twenty eyelets on your boots?

“She’ll be fine. And when she’s not fine that’ll be fine too.” Betty reassured him, stroking his arm gently under the sleeve of his t-shirt.

“Maple Manhattans and then Prospect Park to people watch?” suggested Veronica from the front seat and they agreed that sounded like the most sensible plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, an ending. I did write a little coda for this because I wanted to see Toni meet Cheryl so, if anyone wants it, let me know and maybe I’ll put it up.


End file.
